


All This Happened, More or Less

by ceeainthereforthat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Castiel, Carpenter!Dean, Dean's favorite band is Nirvana, Foster Care, Law Student Sam, M/M, Road Trips, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Temporary Character Death - Winchesters, driver picks the music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 88,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had no idea that inheriting John Winchester's Impala was only the beginning of the destruction of his life. That Sam's dreams were more than just the consequences of late night pizza dinners. That angels looked like slightly rumpled tax accountants.</p><p>And he's not ready for any of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything Was Beautiful and Nothing Hurt

Act 1: The Saddest Words Are, "It Might Have Been" 

The bottom dropped out of Dean Winchester’s life the second he saw that car, because the only way John Winchester’s black 1967 Impala would be coming to him hitched on the back of a tow truck would be over his father’s dead body. John had loved that car, more than anything, anyone.

Dean had loved it once.

He cut the engine of the lawnmower and waited for the man in the tow truck to get out. Dean planted his feet in the half-cut grass and refused to follow the lurch in his stomach, the urge to run the five strides into Bobby Singer’s arms and for fuck’s sake, he isn’t a child any more. He bit down on _Uncle Bobby_ and put his chin up.

“Bobby.”

“Dean.” The tattered bill of Bobby Singer’s filthy trucker cap bobbed in greeting, his sun-touched squint sharp on Dean’s face.

“Been a long time,” Dean said, and couldn’t help the hot wire of satisfaction that burned along the scar on his chest when the older man winced.

“Four years.”

Dean’s hands settled on his hips. “Do I get three guesses as to what brings you here?”

Bobby lifted his head and eyed Dean. “If you want to play it like that.”

“So. He left me the car.”

“He did. It’s yours. Fully restored, top running condition.”

Dean shook his head. He looked down at the border between cut grass and tall. John had left him his car. “Yeah. What’s blue book on a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, anyway?”

“Dean. Are you really going to play it like that?”

He hadn’t seen Bobby in four years. But he called. Birthdays and Christmas and Superbowl Sunday. He _called_. Anger subsided. It wasn’t his fault. “No,” Dean said. “Not with you. You’re not the one who deserved it.”

He crossed the two steps of the lawn and thumped the older man’s back in a hug that Bobby Singer returned.

“Uncle Bobby.”

“Boy.”

They stepped back and stuck their hands in their pockets, looked off down opposite ends of the street.

Dean looked back. “Long drive here from Sioux Falls with a tow. Come on in, I’ll get you a beer.”

*

The beer was a cold and bitter pilsener and they drank it straight from the bottle. Bobby looked around at Dean’s perpetually in-progress renovations and complimented Dean’s finished work. “The cabinet doors are nice. Did you carve those?”

“Naw, those are machined,” Dean said. “I don’t carve much any more.”

“Well, you keep busy.”

Dean laughed and pointed to the powder room just off the back door with his beer. “I’ve re-done the bathroom three times. Some young couple is going to have to live with this place one day.”

Bobby eyed him sidewise. “You don’t plan on sticking around?”

“In Milwaukee? Yes. This house? For a few more years,” Dean said. “But I’m on year four of my first plan. I’m looking to become a contractor. Next year, I think. Renovations, infills, new properties.”

“That’s hard work,” Bobby said.

“Like being a mechanic is filing your nails all day,” Dean scoffed.

“Well,” Bobby said, and left them in silence.

Dean wanted to fill the space. Talk of football, maybe, but Bobby spoke up. “So.”

Dean sipped his beer and looked at the slate tile.

“ John left you everything. Such as it is.”

“The car and a couple of Led Zep cassettes?” Dean asked the lip of his beer.

“Here.” Bobby handed over a ring of keys. “Self storage units. They’re all over the US. Probably a pain in the ass to get to, find out what’s hoarded in them. Not sure I’d bother.”

Dean didn’t need this. “Not sure I would either.”

“There’s a box in the front seat of the Impala.” Bobby pointed at Dean's front picture window with his chin. “There’s photographs in there, and an old journal. It was your father’s.”

Dean’s throat clenched. A picture filled his mind of a leather bound binder. John’s block printing on some pages, his slanted, pointed script on others.

“I promised your old man I would give you that journal, boy. But if I were you, I wouldn’t look inside it. Some things you don’t need to know. Other things you don’t need to understand. And there are things best left undisturbed.”

“What is this thing, _The Necronomicon_?”

Bobby gave him a sharp look.

Dean shrugged. “Anyway. There’s probably a game on, if you want to watch it.”

“Can’t stay,” Bobby said. “I had to shut down to make the road trip out, and bills don’t pay themselves.”

 _He’s leaving already?_ “At least stay for some grub.”

“Tell you what,” Bobby said. “I’ll stay for that, and then I’ll get back on the road.”

*

They were eating the last of the oven fries when the phone rang. Dean recognized the number, and answered, “Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam said. “I got a 174 on my LSATs. I did it.”

Sam planned for law school all along. He’d planned to be gone all these years. Dean was waiting for the call in a few years to say that he’d settled in LA or Seattle and wasn’t coming back home.

“That’s awesome, Sam. Knew you could do it,” Dean grinned.

“That Sam?” Bobby asked. Dean nodded yes.

“You’ve got company,” Sam said.

“Yeah, Bobby Singer,” Dean said.

“Uncle Bobby?" Sam's voice cracked with excitement. "Put me on speaker.” 

Dean obeyed. “Say hello.”

“Uncle Bobby, I did it! Stanford Law!”

“That’s great, boy,” Bobby said. That smile was the first one Dean had seen on him since he arrived. “You’ll be a hotshot lawyer in no time.”

“Thanks. What are you doing there?”

Dean and Bobby looked at each other.

Sam spoke into the silence. “It’s John, isn’t it.”

“Sam, your father passed away three days ago,” Bobby said. “He’s already buried. I came out here to bring Dean his things.

“His things. That car and his leather jacket?”

“Sam.”

“Sam, your father had his reasons for—”

“For what? Abandoning us in a motel with five boxes of Lucky Charms and a month’s worth of canned goods when I was six?” Sam’s voice hammered over the line, louder. “We waited for him until the manager came to evict us from the room. A month and two days later. What reason could he have for doing that?”

“Sam.”

“No, Dean. I have a right to be angry.”

“At Bobby?”

“No. Sorry,” Sam said. “But he left us, Uncle Bobby. And he made you his messenger, all those years. Well, I guess that’s done.”

At least that’s done.

“Anyway,” Sam said. “Dean will you be around later?”

“It’s pool night at Tipsy’s.”

“You’re back in that league?”

“They let women join the league for free,” Dean said. “That and winning the tournament is enough reason to hang out in a crappy bar for three hours on Friday night.”

“Give me a call before you go?”

Bobby and Dean exchanged glances again.  “Sure thing, Sammy.”

“Okay, gotta go. Nice hearing from you, Uncle Bobby.”

“Wish it were under better circumstances, boy. Take care.”

Dean hung up.

“Seems to me your brother’s got something he wants to tell just you,” Bobby said. “I’ll get out of your hair so you can hear it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave first thing in the morning?”

“Have to get back. You want the car in the garage?”

“In the drive. I’ll get it.”

*

The smell punched him in the gut.

Dean closed his eyes and listened to the engine, felt the vibrating caress of the seat, and felt like he didn’t belong there, on the driver’s side. This was his first world, and he had always been a passenger in it.

He pulled the lever on the right side of the steering wheel and put the car in reverse. He cranked on the wheel, growled at the lack of power steering and eased the car backwards onto the drive.

Seriously, this thing was a boat. He had his truck and his work van and now this. He hauled on the wheel and regretted trying to back into the damn garage like he’d been driving with steering that was no better than a rudder for years. But the smell, leather and old dust in the vents and cedar balls instead of those cardboard pine trees and he had to get out of this car before he choked on the dust like so many shards of glass—

He bore down hard on the brake, and the box on the passenger seat rattled. He looked at it, taped shut and for some reason marked all over with symbols that looked like

Like--

_(sigils)_

Like some 13 year old replicating whatever they found on a Blue Oyster Cult album.

_If I were you, I wouldn’t look inside it._

He left it on the seat untouched and slammed the driver’s door behind him.

*

Dean waited for Bobby to pull out of sight before he dialed Sam, who picked it up on the first ring.

“Dean.” Sam sounded a bit embarrassed on the phone

“Sammy,” Dean said. He had a second beer open, sitting on his right knee. Tipsy’s was ten blocks away, he wasn’t going to drive that. “What’s up.”

“Is Uncle Bobby gone already?” Sam turned down his music.

He shut his mouth on his first response: _He didn’t want to stick around._ “Said he had to get back and get the shop open.”

“Yeah, but it’s Friday.”

“I guess he didn’t want to stick around,” Dean said. So much for keeping it cool and detached. But everyone left. Sooner or later, they left.

“Dean, I — this sucks,” Sam said. “Never mind, it’s just stupid. Are you okay?”

“Sam, it’ll be the last time he disrupts our lives, that’s all. It’s over,” Dean said. It had been over for a long time. “What did you want to tell me that you didn’t want to say in front of Bobby?”

“It’s really stupid,” Sam said. “Just, I had this dream, right? You know how you forget some dreams almost right away and others stick with you?”

Oh shit. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“Well I didn’t wake up screaming about _witches_.”

Sam’s chuckle stuck pins in Dean’s spine.

“Think you outgrew that a while back,” Dean said.

“Yeah. But this dream, it’s been bugging me.”

“And you want to tell me about it,” Dean said.

“Right. Okay, so in my dream, I’m watching a woman walk up to a house. It has that sort of roof that the houses in tornado belts have—”

“Hipped roof, no dormers,” Dean said automatically.

“Right. But it has a porch and she walks up to the front door and knocks. And it’s done up for Halloween, you know, cheesy fake cobwebs, a bunch of jack o’ lanterns, motion activated hands wiggling in the grass, the whole show.”

“Right.”

“A guy answers the door. He looks like he’s in his late 30’s, overweight, like you can see it on his face, hooked nose, curly brown hair, and the woman says, ‘Dean Winchester?’ and he says yes, and she—”

Sam took a deep breath. “She kicks the door in, knocks the guy over, and stabs him in the throat. She pulls the knife out and  blood sprays over her, it hits the wall, and--then I woke up.”

Dean knew from that pause that Sam didn't just wake up. _Let it go. He's not eight any more._ “That is freaky. You dreamed about a woman killing a guy who wasn’t me, but who had the same name as me? Sam. What did you eat before you went to sleep?”

“I don’t know, nothing weird,” Sam said. “It’s just a dream, but I dunno, I felt like I had to tell you.”

“Well thanks for sharing,” Dean said. “At least I get to be disturbed with you.”

“You don’t — it doesn’t mean anything, does it? It’s just a dream.”

“What, do think you’re going all Miss Cleo, here? Just a dream, Sammy.”

“Just a dream,” Sam said. “Hey listen, I’m sorry you have all the shit from John to deal with alone.”

"Yeah, thanks a lot, right?"

"He left you that car? Let me guess. It's in perfect shape," Sam said.

“Completely cherry. And get this,” Dean said. “He left me a bunch of keys for self storage units all over the country. No idea how to deal with any of it.”

Sam made a flabbergasted noise. “Wow, how… seriously?”

“Not even kidding.”

“That’s just…wow. I don’t even know what that is. What else did he leave behind, you know?”

“Not even going to think about it today,” Dean said. “I’ve got to put my game face on, top team prize is a year's worth of free wings.”

“Jess just came home. It’s Dean.” The smack of a hello kiss sounded over the line.

“Hi Dean,” Jess said. “Sam, you’re not dressed!”

“I don’t really go in for Halloween, you know that—hang on.” Sam turned his attention back to Dean. “College Halloween parties.”

“Oh, I get it,” Dean said. “I expect a naughty nurse or two playing pool tonight.”

“I better let you get to that,” Sam said.

“Sure,” Dean answered. “Thanks, Sammy. And it really was just a dream.”

*

To be honest even being able to join for free didn’t get many women joining the pool league. Dean liked the game, liked eyeballing the angles and predicting the effect of spin. Tipsy’s kept their tables level and had a betting cap of five bucks on a game, so it was no good for hustlers.

Not that Dean got hustled at pool.

The rest of The Septemberists were already assembled around a table next to the two steps up to the pool tables, staying absolutely clear of the short ramp leading up. Tipsy’s had a space that could have fit two rows of eight tables, but instead housed six, with plenty of room for wheelchairs. Dean shook hands with the Unholy Rollers before sitting down and getting his share of the pitcher.

“How we doing tonight?”

“We’re up against the Pink Ladies,” Duncan said, and stroked his beard.

Dean groaned. The Pink Ladies were full of adept defensive players who delighted in leaving an opponent behind the 8 ball.

“We had us a real freaked out moment earlier, Dean,” Todd grinned and pulled a bright yellow knit cap off his head, letting shaggy black hair fall into his eyes.

“Oh shit, yeah. Gave me the wiggins,” Duncan said. “We heard your name and it took a while to find out it wasn’t you..”

Dean cupped one hand to his ear, confused. “My what, my name? What wasn’t me?”

Todd pointed in the direction of the TV Dean usually ignored. “It’s the news.”

“Yeah. Hang on, it should be coming up. Yo Tipsy!” Duncan hollered. “Dean’s here.”

Tipsy was one of those guys who’d built a lot of muscles when he was young, whose body still remembered the shape of him even though his middle had gone soft with forty. He walked over with a bar towel on his shoulder and a round, cork bottomed tray bearing a single shot of amber colored bourbon and a tv remote. “Dean, you’re alive. Have a drink on the house.”

Dean took the shot, and cocked his head at Tipsy, at all of them. “What’s going on?”

Tipsy nodded at the TV and used the remote to turn it up. The news announcer paused for a moment as the headline changed to “Do you know Dean Winchester?”

The news footage was of a modest looking bungalow with a gray hipped roof, with no dormers.

“Police are looking for any information about Dean Henry Winchester, who was the victim of a home invasion in the community of Waukesha.”

Dean damn near dropped his shot.

They showed a few pictures of the victim, who had a hooked nose and curly brown hair, always smiling at the camera.

“Jesus.” Dean knocked one back and shuddered.

“You want to take a bye?”

“No,” Dean said. “It wasn’t me.”

The bourbon soured in his belly, and he kept an eye on the crowd.

“What are we waiting for, fellas? Let’s play some pool.”

*

He played lousy, and everyone was really nice about it. Dean hated every fucking awful shot he took and he’d wanted to sink into the floor when he miscued on the 8 ball and lost. He trudged home wanting to give his cue case away to the first stranger he met, but just kept his head down, his collar popped, and walked to the beat of the Nirvana song blasting in his ears. He checked his watch. Sam might be getting ready to go to that party. He shouldn’t worry him.

Sam had dreamed something that really happened. Like—

Like—

Like Sam had the Shining, and that was fucked up. Part of him wanted to turn around and go back to Tipsy’s and check if that pretty blonde had moved on to eyeing somebody else because he needed to forget, to shake it off.

He lengthened his pace to match [Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVLD0L-9u0g&feature=kp) and let himself in his house. The phone was in his hands and ringing Sam’s cell before he’d even opened the fridge to get a pitcher of water.

“Dean,” Sam answered. “What’s up?”

“Sammy.” Dean poured a tall glass of that water before putting it in the fridge. “Sorry to bother you but something fucking weird just happened, man. I mean Twilight Zone creeping up your neck weird. You near your laptop?”

“Yeah.”

“Search ‘Dean Winchester murder Waukesha.’”

“What?”

“Do it, and tell me if Search the Web gives you a picture of the guy.”

“Dean, what the hell, are you telling me—shit, Dean. Shit.”

Dean took a sip, wetting a throat suddenly gone dry. “That the guy from your dream?”

“Yeah, Dean, that’s him exactly,” Sam said. “What the hell is this?”

“Like I said, Twilight Zone.”

Sam didn’t say anything for a bit, but Dean heard the tapping of keys and the clicking of a mouse until he said, “Shit.  Are you at home?”

His voice cracked on the word home. Dean knew that voice.

“What? Yeah.”

Sam was scared shitless.

“Get out, Dean. Get out. Go anywhere but there.”

“Sam, what are you talking about?”

“You were right. That’s the guy from my dream. But that’s not all.”

“How can that not be all?”

“Because the guy I saw in my dream was Dean Henry Winchester, 37, Waukesha, the victim of a home invasion murder.”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news.”

“How far away is Muskego from you?”

“About twenty miles.”

“Well yesterday, Dean Calvin Winchester was also murdered in his home. Apparently he answered the door and died in his foyer.”

“Hang on, hang on, what the fuck, Sam.” Dean groped for the thick phone directory that served every suburb, bedroom community, and slightly separated town from the city. He opened it near the end of the book.

He read Winchester, D.C., and then Winchester, Dean H., and then Winchester, Dean M.

Dean Michael Winchester.

Him.

“Sam...they’re all in the phone book. And I’m next.”

Somebody knocked on the door.

*

 _Never go up, you idiot,_ Dean berated himself, but he backed up the stairs and thanked the spirit of Kurt Cobain that he’d torn the stairs up and re-done them. They didn’t squeak or moan under his feet as he retreated up the stairs, like every fool in every thriller movie ever.

But he had to go up. The guns were up there.

“Dean, what—”

“Sammy,” he hissed. “Hang up, call 911. Tell them that you’re reporting a home invasion, give them my address. Tell them my name when they connect you. Get the cops, Sammy.”

He hung up on his brother and called 911 himself.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean said. “My name is Dean Michael Winchester, and I live at—”

“We have your address, Mr. Winchester," the dispatcher said. "Help is already on its way. Please tell me about your emergency.”

“There’s someone at my door,” Dean said.

“Do you know who it is?”

“No.”

“Don’t answer the door, Mr. Winchester. Help is on the way.”

He opened his gun locker, and loaded his hunting rifle. “Good,” he said.

The front door burst open. Dean crouched, sighting the upstairs hallway. He hung up the phone and stabilized his crouch, staring down the barrel for movement, listened to heeled shoes thump on the risers of his stairs.

He waited, watched a knee flexed to carry a woman up the stairs, a woman with long brown hair that curled at the ends. She was dressed in cowboy boots, long-legged jeans, a black t-shirt and a black motorcycle jacket.

So that’s why they opened the door to her, Dean thought. She’s beautiful.

But her smile was cruel. “What do I want to bet your name is Dean Winchester?” she asked.

“Lady I don’t know what you want, but I am armed and if you don’t get off my property I will defend my life and my home,” Dean said.

“How law abiding of you,” the woman cooed. “It’s so _cute_.”

She took a step forward, her smile wide and her eyes—

They shuttered, turned black, and thunder crashed right over the house, shaking the floor. Dean kept his weight centered and sighted, but her eyes, her _eyes_ and her toothy grin, the joyful look on her face that didn’t falter as he squeezed the trigger and fired right into her heart. He knew the shot would kill her before she even hit the floor.

She rocked backwards, spread her feet, and looked down at the hole in her chest.

“I’m running out of clean shirts,” she pouted.

Dean emptied the magazine into her. Head, throat, chest, then he shifted down and took a kneecap.

She couldn’t stand. But she could still breathe.

And crawl, leaving a smear of blood down his carpet runner, straight for him.

He squeezed the trigger, but he used all five shots. She dragged herself closer. He could smell urine joining the slick of sweat that drenched him and thought, _This isn’t happening. I’m asleep._

The nightmare woman waved her hand and Dean blew back against the wall before he could reverse the rifle in his grip and do his best to shatter her shoulder.

“You’ve got it in you, Dean Winchester,” the woman said. “This quiet tedium of a life you live, and you’re still born to the path destiny chose for you. Too bad that life's ov--”

She shrieked and covered her ears, landing facedown in the wet carpet. Dean clapped hands over his ears too. Bright lights flashed, bright enough to leave spots. The cops were here? Thank God. Thank God.

But the man who strode down the hall was no riot-suited, helmeted cop. He was an ordinary dude. Dressed like a tax accountant in a tan trenchcoat, white shirt, blue tie, black dress pants, wingtips. He had his hand out before him, and he was shouting—

Latin?

*

 _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas,”_ the man chanted. _“Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_

“Save it, pencilneck,” the woman snarled.

The man stopped chanting. “As you wish.”

His eyes glowed blue. The lights … exploded. Shadows raised behind him, huge, feathered wing-shaped shadows. A long silver knife appeared in his hand, lit by the eldritch shine of his own radiance.

The woman screamed, mouth wide. A thick pillar of black smoke belched from her body, disappearing into the dark. The body fell limp like a dropped marionette, sightless eyes open.

Dean scrambled for his rifle, breaths tinged with whimpers that would become screams if he got enough air.

The man in the trenchcoat stepped over the body of the woman and offered his hand.

“Be not afraid,” he said.

Dean flinched. The man backed off a step.

Dean stared at him in the dark. Sirens sounded in the distance. The cops were on their way.

The man put his hand out again. “Come with me if you want to live.”


	2. Everything That Ever Has Been, Always Will Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Some things you don’t need to know.”_
> 
> _“We needed the book.”_
> 
> _Dean stared at the box. He’d brought it in when he cleared the car of all visible valuables, and it sat on the other bed as if it ticked. It was big enough to hold a human head, and Dean couldn’t stop thinking about Brad Pitt in Se7en._
> 
> _Bobby told him that he didn’t need to know. Castiel said he needed it. Who did he listen to?_

Dean stared at the man in disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Dean.” The man stared at him, ignoring the body on the ground. “It is vitally important that you flee this place immediately.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dean got to his feet and groaned at the itchy wetness of his jeans. “The cops are coming. I won’t tell them about you. Thanks for the help but I think I got it.”

The man stood with his head tilted, examining every detail of Dean’s face . “The creature who hunted you is not dead.”

Dean looked at the body again. It hadn’t moved. He kept looking, to make sure. “She’s right there on the floor.”

“That was her vessel.”

“What do you mean?”

“You battled a demon possessing a human, Dean Winchester, and now that the demon knows you, she will hunt you.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The gesture was so--human--that it made Dean stay quiet.

The sirens got louder, closer.

The man spoke again. “She will hunt you until you are dead. You’re not safe unless you come with me. Now.”

The man put out his hand again, and Dean looked at it.

“Dean, please. I’m _begging_ you.”

Dean didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know why he wasn’t re-loading his rifle, why he wasn’t screaming or puking his guts out, or why he was listening to this man at all. But he was.

He took the man’s hand, and the world warped around them, vision and sound and his stomach all twisting. One moment they were in Dean’s upstairs hallway, and the next -

They were seated in the Impala. Dean in the driver’s seat, the rumpled man to his right, and the box between them.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” his heart pounded--too hard, too fast. He pressed at his breastbone, rubbed the long scar that stretched over it.

“Go, Dean.” The man lifted his hand and the garage door opened. “There’s no time to waste.”

“But clothes, money—” He’d been teleported. Teleported! Like fuckin’ Nightcrawler or something! Clothes and money? _Really?_

“I’ll take care of it. _Go!”_

Dean put the car in drive and paused at the end of the driveway, hauling on the wheel to turn the lumbering vehicle into the street. Red and blue light splashed the intersection to the right. Dean swung the wheel left and drove away, nice and easy, as if wet denim wasn’t making his thighs itch.

“Give me your wallet,” the man said.

“What?”

He put his hand out and sighed in exasperation. “We need money, but you can’t use your credit cards. Your phone. Give me your phone. They can track your signal.”

Dean kept his hands on the wheel.“You’re acting like I’m a fugitive!”

“You are,” he said. “Demons can possess _anyone._ That demon can take the vessel of someone who can track your financial transactions, trace your phone, put an APB on your truck.”

“Is that why you zapped us - _how did you do that?_ ” Dean yelled. “Who are you?”

“I am Castiel.”

The name didn’t help him. Dean picked at his wet jeans, and shifted uncomfortably. “What are you?”

“I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“There’s no such thing,” Dean said. _Yeah but you went straight to the X-men when he blinked you into this car._

“That has always been your problem, Dean,” Castiel said, and he smiled at him, a fond smile with his eyes creasing into years of laughter. He looked at Dean like a friend of many years, referring to a joke from their past. “You have no faith.”

He couldn't believe this. Dean searched his memory, trying to place him. Anyone who looked at him like that had to know him. But he’d never seen this guy in his life.

“I believe in what I can see with my own eyes.”

“And what did your own eyes see today?”

The impossible.

Castiel let the silence hang.

None of this could really be happening. He didn’t just put five rounds in a woman who just kept coming. And this--nerd-- didn’t teleport them into John’s old car.

But what if it was happening? Who said he could trust this guy?

“We are in the Impala because it is important,” Castiel said. “A hunter’s personal vehicle has more than one useful thing in it. And we needed the book.”

“The book.”

Castiel patted the box between them. “In here. Warded against demons.”

“What, you mean all that heavy metal album crap?”

“Sigils.”

Dean fought the sick quiver in his gut as Castiel went on.

“They’re an important part of protective magic. You have much to learn if you are going to survive this fold in time.”

“Fold in—”

“You were unstuck from the path of your destiny, and placed here, in this fold of time. I am here to make sure that you return to that path.”

This was crazy.

“Why should I trust you?” Dean demanded. “You could have just set me up. Sent that — whatever in to scare me, and then come in to the rescue, and reality is you’re in cahoots all along.”

“No faith,” Castiel said. “There is no reason for you to trust me. But can you afford not to trust me? How will you keep yourself safe from an opponent you don’t know how to detect until it’s too late, an enemy that bullets and marksmanship won’t stop?”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that.

“And while you’re thinking about that, Dean, ask yourself—are you the only son of John Winchester who had something ‘weird’ happen to them today?” He lifted both hands and crooked his first two fingers in time with the word weird.

Dean’s breath caught. “You’re saying Sam’s in danger too.”

“And he needs to learn what you do,” Castiel said. “You’re not the only one torn from your path.”

Dean didn’t want to believe. He didn’t. But it was holding together, this crazy story. “What do we — what do we do? You came back from the future, didn’t you? We’re in some kind of recursive time loop, headed towards an event where we have to … do the right thing?”

Castiel shook his head. “The forking of this path already happened. Sixteen years ago, in your reckoning.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this,” Dean flashed on the memory of black eyes and that woman, barely staggering after each shot, still coming. He looked back at the road and realised he was headed south on 32, on the exit to Milwaukee. Headed for the office. “So what am I, Billy Pilgrim?”

“You are Dean Michael Winchester, and you save the world,” Castiel said.

Dean couldn’t do anything but shake his head.

“Twice,” Castiel added.

“Come on,” Dean said. “This—this is crap. I don’t save the world. I’m a _carpenter._ ”

Castiel’s smile was asymmetrical, wider on one side. “So was the most famous man in history.”

“So what are you saying—will I be famous?” _Eyes on the road,_ he thought to himself, but he glanced at Castiel again.

“Very few will know your name. Almost no one will know what you accomplish. You will be unsung, unthanked, and on the run for most of your life.”

Dean scoffed and merged into traffic. “Wow. Way to sell it to a guy, Castiel.”

“But I can promise this much, Dean.”

“What’s that?”

“You will be loved.”

*

Dean kept his mouth shut for the next seventy miles. Milwaukee was gone, and he was on I-43 and headed to Illinois. He kept hearing _You will be loved_ in his head, and he didn’t have an answer to that. How could he answer that? It was cheesy bullshit. What did that mean, being loved? What kind of an answer was that?

The flap of huge wings made him look to his right, to an empty passenger seat. Dean pulled over, stopped the car, and got out. He stood on the side of the road, feeling for his phone.

Gone.

Dean felt for his wallet.

Still there. But all his cards were gone - credit card, driver’s license, even his library card. All his cash was still there, which amounted to about fifty-four bucks.

“Son of a Bitch,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice sounded behind him, and he whirled to the right.

Castiel carried a gym bag in each hand. He was a little shorter than Dean, and he walked right into Dean’s personal space.

“You took my cards.”

“You’re off the grid,” Castiel said. “I went back and got you some clothes. I hope what I selected will be helpful.”

He offered the first bag and Dean unzipped it. His In Utero t-shirt was right on top. He dug through the bag. All of it was familiar.

“These are _my_ clothes.”

Castiel nodded. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with your own clothes.”

“The cops are already gone?”

Castiel blinked. “No, I expect they’ll still be there for hours.”

Dean waved at the bag. “Then how did you--”

Castiel pointed at himself and gave Dean a look. “Angel.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Thanks for my clothes. What’s in the other bag?”

“Money.”

Dean stared at it. “You got me a bag full of money?”

Castiel sighed. “You need money, Dean, and you don’t know how to defraud credit card companies yet.”

“Did you rob a bank?”

“Something like that,” Castiel said.

“How much money?”

“Sixty-eight thousand, nine hundred and forty-two dollars. Mostly in twenties.”

Dean blinked. “That’s how much money I had in savings.”

“I thought it appropriate,” Castiel said. “You should get to California as quickly as you can. Pray to me and I will come, but I won’t be far.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m scouting for demons. There’s a motel up the road in a town called Delavan, about fifty miles, called Abide With Inn. I’ve checked it already, and it’s safe. Get a room there. Don’t use the phone.”

“What about Sam?” Dean asked, but Castiel was gone in a rush of wings.

*

Dean dug around in his bag and found clean shorts and jeans. He wasn’t going to ride in pissed-on jeans even if it meant standing bare-assed on the side of the highway. He changed his shirt, too, easing the Nirvana T-shirt over a long-sleeve henley, covered it all with a blue work shirt.

When he was as good as he was gonna get without a shower, he ducked back in on the driver’s side long enough to pop the trunk. Gravel shifted under his unlaced boots as he lifted the trunk lid.

“Whoa.”

There was an arsenal inside. Guns. Sawed-off shotguns. A whole collection of knives, neatly categorized - steel, iron, silver, flint, bone. Ammo boxes, labeled and stacked. _Wooden stakes_ , for fuck’s sake. A compound bow Dean knew how to use, a set of crossbows he didn’t—

“What the fuck?”

And all around the underside of the lid, more of those symbols. Dean guessed they were occult or something.

_A hunter’s personal vehicle has more than one useful thing in it._

_Hunter_ suddenly took on a different tone. Dean had figured Castiel had meant things that an outdoorsman would think to carry, not Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“This is crazy,” Dean said.

He heaved the bag full of money and his dirty clothes into the trunk, then dipped into the money bag and took a pinch of bills, counted it out.

About four hundred bucks.

He needed a gas station. He had to call Sam, who was probably losing his mind.

*

Castiel never mentioned a gas station when he told Dean about the motel about an hour down the road. He kept a nervous eye on the needle sinking towards and then below the E on the fuel gauge for a good 20 minutes before the welcome sight of a Gas-N-Sip sign appeared. As it was, he didn’t want to know how close he came to needing to push the car up to the pump.

Dean leaned on the Impala’s flank and filled her up. He went inside and nodded to the guy behind the counter, walking down the aisles. He found beef jerky, Mr. Pibb and a jumbo bag of pretzels to go with a six pack of beer. He picked the cheapest pay-as-you-go cell phone and added a card for fifty dollars worth of minutes.

The cashier--Joe, by his nametag--ran every bill Dean handed him through a blacklight, apologizing profusely, and Dean just kept his nod and smile on while Joe inspected every one. He piled his snacks and the phone in the front seat, and got back on the road only to pull into the next parking lot. The motel Castiel had told him about was there.

Abide With Inn was a collection of little bungalows painted white with green trim. It looked private and quiet. He shouldn’t stay there. Castiel had told him it was safe, and that only mattered if he could trust Castiel. He could be walking right into a trap.

The money was good, and he had a lot of it. Enough to run a long way with Sam and hide. He didn’t know what to do, but he had a loaded cell phone. Might as well use it here.  Dean got out of the car and walked into the little building that said, “Manager.”

The night clerk accepted payment in advance with cash, didn’t ask for ID, and didn’t look too closely at the register. Dean signed it Dave Grohl anyway.

The carpet in room 19 was new. The room smelled like pine and lemon cleaner, no funky motel smell. The bedspreads were navy blue; the walls and the carpet were sandy beige. There was an old television and a mini fridge stocked with soda. Dean brought in his clothes bag and the money bag, the snacks, the box, and cracked a beer before he even took off his boots.

It was late in California, but still before midnight. Dean doubted Sam was asleep. He wouldn’t be, if he’d gotten a phone call half as freaky from Sam.

Sam picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Sam, Sammy it’s me,” Dean said.

“DEAN!” Sam cried. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m on the run, Sam. Listen to me carefully. I’m in deep trouble.”

Sam’s words tumbled one after another in his haste to get them out. “Dean the police only want to talk to you. They said it was clear that you’d shot in self defense, and they just want you to come in and tell them what happened.”

“Sam, I’m not doing that,” Dean said. “Promise me you won’t tell them that I called you. I’m in the kind of trouble the police can’t help with.”

“Dean,” Sam said, voice hushed. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I can’t explain over the phone.”

“Do you owe money to somebody?” Sam asked.

“What? No!” Dean said. “I know what you’re thinking, and no. It’s not that kind of trouble. I think it’s to do with… I think it might have something to do with John.”

“You think he got into that? Maybe that’s what he was doing.”

“Sammy please,” Dean said. “I’m coming to you. I will get there as soon as I can. Don’t tell anyone I called you. Don’t tell anyone I’m coming. I’ll explain what I know when I get there. I just wanted you to know that I’m—”

He was what? Okay? He was not okay.

“—Alive,” he finished. “Okay? Not a word. Call me in the morning.”

He gave Sam his number and prayed he didn’t get any ideas about what Dean ought to be doing.

*

_“Some things you don’t need to know.”_

_“We needed the book.”_

Dean stared at the box. He’d brought it in when he cleared the car of all visible valuables, and it sat unopened on the other bed as if it ticked. It was big enough to hold a human head, and Dean couldn’t stop thinking about Brad Pitt in _Se7en_.

Bobby told him that he didn’t need to know. Castiel said he needed it. Who did he listen to?

Bobby didn’t have anything to say about the markings on the box. Told him to leave it alone, but didn’t clear the arsenal out of the trunk. Didn’t Bobby think that he’d have a question or two about its contents?

Dean didn’t know enough about what was going on. And he’d told Sam he would have an explanation. If he trusted Castiel—

“Can I trust you, Castiel?” he asked.

Wingbeats sounded in the room.

“You never put salt on the windows and doors,” Castiel said.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean said. “Did that count as a prayer?”

Castiel stood in the space between the two beds. He was too close. Dean had to sit up straight to look and him, and he never seemed to look at anything but Dean’s face. “Prayer is simply speaking to God, or an angel, or a saint or demigod,” Castiel said. “You asked if you could trust me. I told you that when you prayed to me, I would come. If I am to earn your trust I need to demonstrate consistency and make good on my promises.”

“Yeah. Okay.” This guy was weird. “Sit down, will you? Tell me about the book.”

“It’s John Winchester’s journal.” Castiel sat on the opposite bed, next to the box. He passed the box over. Dean took it, though he didn’t want to touch the thing. “Hunters keep a book in their own handwriting, a written record to pass on to the next.”

Dean hefted the sigil-bound box. He could hold it on one palm, as if the box were nearly empty. “And John, he passed his … ‘hunter’s journal’ on to me? So I can become a hunter too, is that it?”

“Dean, you should have been a hunter long ago,” Castiel offered his hands, palms out. “The fold in time took you away from your path. You should already know far more than I will have time to teach you. John Winchester’s journal can teach you a great deal beyond my focus.”

“What’s that?” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He wanted this to be not real. A dream. A vivid, real, crazy dream. But he knew it was really happening.

“I need to teach you and your brother how to fight demons.”

Dean stared. He accepted that Castiel was…something. He could disappear and reappear, steal things right out of a house crawling with cops. But—

“You’re serious.”

“Dean. I will tell you something you need to know. Angels can lie. I won’t lie to you. If you ask me something that I think I can’t tell you, I’ll tell you that, rather than lie to you.”

Dean cracked a smile. “Do these jeans make my ass look fat?”

Castiel looked. Dean’s smile faltered. Castiel still looked Dean over, taking in the details.

“I didn’t mean--”

“Your clothing choices are comfortable, practical, and suited to hard wear,” Castiel interrupted. “The amount of physical labor you do at your job keeps you in good physical shape. Your gluteal muscles are more developed than the average man’s, but that doesn’t make them fat.”

Dean blinked. “Cas, are you gay?”

Castiel cocked his head and frowned. “Strictly speaking, angels fall outside the human spectrum of gender. My vessel is not me.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “And I was kidding.”

Castiel looked contrite. “I often miss your humor, Dean. I am sorry. I will try harder to detect it.”

Dean studied Castiel’s expression. Castiel stared back at him, and it seemed like he just didn’t know that he was supposed to look around at things. Dean looked at the sigil covered box. _He looks human, but he’s not. His vessel is not him--_

Dean swung his head back around to look at Castiel. “Wait, your vessel?”

“My true form would probably frighten you,” Castiel said. “Before looking on it burned out your eyes.”

Dean had to know. “Are you possessing some poor bastard?”

Castiel’s look turned sad. “Not any more.”

Dean looked away. “Okay, never mind. Do you know what’s in the book?”

“Some of it,” Castiel said. “Enough to know that what’s inside will confuse and discomfit you. You need only pray to me, and I will come.”

Dean looked at the box again. “But you think I should read it.”

“You must,” Castiel said. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head and rubbed at the ache in his chest. “Alright, I’ll read it. Are you going to fly away again?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “But I won’t go far.”

“Scouting for demons,” Dean said. “Yeah, I get it.”

*

The book was the ravings of a madman.

It started out ordinarily enough. John started it the day of Mom’s funeral, and Dean could feel his pain and confusion through the tidy block printing he still remembered. Dean remembered the fire. Remembered how he and Sammy had shared a bed for years, neither one of them able to sleep without the other. How Dean used to wake up to find Sam curled up in his bed after a bad night, years after Sam was too old to be sharing a bed with his brother. John writing about that brought it back, but…

Mom was on the ceiling? The fire started on the ceiling?

And how insane was that, compared to a woman who kept coming with four killing shots in her and an — an angel of the Lord?

Dean kept reading. The last entry in diary form was dated January 1, 1984:

_“This year I’m making a resolution. I’m going to find out what happened to my wife.”_

Dean turned the page, and that’s when it really got weird.

If John wasn’t completely insane, then the world was full of … monsters. He’d started by looking into paranormal stuff, occult lore, and wound up hunting monsters while on the investigation into what really killed Mom.

He was in the book, too. Him and Sammy. John talked about how he agonized over leaving them in motels or with sitters, but they were too young to join him. Dean read about the day John had taught him how to use a pistol. Dean remembered that day. The gun had been a purse pistol, just a little too big for his hands. He’d shot at bottles, and he had hit every single one.

John had been so proud of him.

He remembered how John had taught him to think of a room by where you could break line of sight and where the exits were. Dean had thought it meant that John was a hero, fighting evil.

Well. Turns out he was fighting evil. If the book was true.

Dean skipped over descriptions of wendigo and werewolves to look for the year 1989, his name, Sam’s name, and found the only entries for July of that year. He found what he’d been looking for:  John had written about the day that he’d left them behind.

He’d written about how the angel Achaiah came to him and told him that if he didn’t give up his children, they would die. How the angel’s eyes glowed blue, and how its wings spread across the room. The angel had said John had a chance to avert their deaths, but only if he gave them up before they learned the truth.

The truth?

An angel had told John to leave them in the motel?

Dean had always thought it had been his fault.  John had refused to talk to him, wouldn’t even look at him, because it had been his fault. He left Sammy alone. And then the witch--

No. That wasn’t real. It wasn’t.

But John had pasted in a picture of an old painting of a hunched monster crouched on the chest of a sleeping woman. He’d seen it before, in stuff Jim and Maria had taken home to read about Sam’s night terrors.

Dean read the entry about Achaiah over and over. John never said anything about the witch. But that was the night Sammy could have died, because--

No. they were just nightmares. Sammy had had bad dreams, but he grew out of it.

Sam had dreamed about the demon hunting Dean Winchesters. Dreamed it exactly.

What was happening to them?

“Castiel,” Dean said. “I don’t know if you’re listening, but—”

“I’m here, Dean.”

Castiel sat on the bed beside him, close enough that their knees touched.

“The things in this book,” Dean said. “They’re real?”

“They’re real.”

He got up and sat on the other bed. “Monsters are real?”

“They’re real.”

“Vampires? Werewolves? Rougarou? Vengeful Spirits? Poltergeists?”

Castiel nodded along to each monster named. “All real.”

Dean turned his attention back to the book. “What about Bigfoot?”

Castiel shook his head.“Bigfoot’s fake.”

“And our destiny is to hunt monsters?” Dean flipped page after page about creatures, stories of hunting critters that belonged in a horror movie.

“It’s more complicated than that,” Castiel said.

“And we—” Dean pointed to Castiel, and then to himself. “You’re my guardian through this?”

“I am here to guard you. The fold in time can’t be undone without great effort. We have to bring the paths together.”

Dean snapped the book shut. “What if I don’t want to?”

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to face this world. He didn’t want to be on the run.

“Then the world will end.”

Dean stopped tracing the outline of the journal’s cover and looked into Castiel’s still staring eyes. “Come on. Really?”

“The Apocalypse will come, if you don’t do what it takes to preserve Sam.”

Dean set the book aside. He had to keep Sam safe. “And if I do?”

“Then you will suffer, and Sam will suffer. You will know very little peace and a great deal of pain.”

“And I’ll fall in love.”

“You will be loved.”

_Not that again._ Dean fought the impulse to reject Castiel’s words. Why did he think that was so important?

_Fuckin’ hippie._

“I think I want to go to sleep now.”

“As you wish,” Castiel said, and reached out.

 


	3. Everything That Ever Will Be, Always Has Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has to get to his brother before the demons do, and tell him the truth about the witch.

Dean came to a few hours later, still in his clothes but under the covers. He didn’t remember falling asleep but it had been awesome. He was sprawled over a bed that wasn’t his, and every bit of him was completely relaxed--

 _Well. Not every bit,_ he thought, and opened his eyes.

_Where--_

He lifted his head and looked around. Motel room. Clean. Humble. Quiet. Dean sat up, rubbed the pillow creases on his face, and then it all came crashing down.

“Castiel,” Dean said, and Castiel appeared with a paper sack that exuded the sweet and greasy smell of high calorie take out breakfast and a large cup of coffee. “Good morning, Dean. I know you slept well.”

He had. Deep and dreamless in a strange place, after the scariest night of his life. And that meant-- “Listen, Cas.”

Castiel smiled at him, and he looked so pleased Dean felt like he was about to kick a puppy.

“That...was a great sleep,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel said. “I should have had you dress for bed first.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dean said, and put his feet on the springy new carpet. “Maybe we should leave the knock-out mojo for when I need it.”

“Dean. You had a very traumatic night,” Castiel said. “You needed that sleep, and you’re not very good at accepting kindness or help.”

Dean stared at him. Castiel had promised to be honest, but that was just uncomfortable. But it proved something.

“You really do know me,” Dean said. “Time to check out and get back on the road.”

*

A shower, breakfast, and twenty miles later, Dean said “I wish I had my iPod jack.” Castiel disappeared for five dashed lines on the road and re-appeared with a cassette converter.

“Wow, that’s some service,” Dean said. “Do I get two more?”

“Dean,” Castiel said. “I don’t know how far you’ve read in the journal, but djinn are among the most frightening monsters on this earth.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s a whole chunk of jokes hunters don’t tell,” Dean said. “So. Nebraska. Really exciting scenery.”

The sky was huge, blue, dotted with silver and white clouds. Dean wondered how many stars would be out in the night, under a sky like that.

He slotted the converter into the car stereo and fumbled inside his jacket pocket. “Can you run this?”

“I can.” Castiel connected the device and turned it on. Guitars played a reverberating dirty southern blues, and Castiel startled.

“What?”

“This isn’t your music.”

Dean frowned at Castiel. “Yes it is. My iPod, my music.”

“It doesn’t sound right.”

Dean laughed. “House rules, Cas. Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cake hole.”

“So I’m going to pick the music when I’m driving?”

Dean scoffed. “Angels can drive?”

Castiel pointed a thumb at himself. “This angel can drive.”

“So what do you like, Cas?”

“For music?” Castiel nodded in time to the music. “Janelle Monáe.”

“Never heard of her.”

Castiel shrugged. “She’s a few years ahead.”

“Is this what I--the other me, I mean—Is that what I listen to?”

“You like the blues,” Castiel said.

“I like the blues,” Dean said. “The White Stripes plays a lot of blues.”

“Robert Johnson?”

“And Blind Lemon Jefferson,” Dean agreed. “What else do I like?”

“Led Zeppelin.”

Dean’s stomach flopped. “I…respect the work they’ve done, but—Cas, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s 2005. Zep broke up when I was _two_. That was John’s music.”

“Your relationship with Led Zeppelin is informed by your relationship with your father,” Castiel said.

“The other me likes Zep, huh.” Dean’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “And the old man.”

“This is uncomfortable for you,” Castiel said. “I’ll stop. What’s your favorite band, Dean?”

“Well, if we’re going to go back in time…Nirvana,” Dean said. “I really liked Grunge in school.”

*

Dean kept up Castiel’s musical education all through the long drive into Utah. Castiel scouted ahead and gave directions to the SleepyTime Motor hotel, where Dean dove straight into the bathroom for his second shower of the day, and then fell into bed, exhausted.

He woke up alone. No breakfast waited for him. He grabbed some drive through and got back on I-80, headed west. His iPod played Nirvana’s cover of [The Man Who Sold the World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80tX5MLX8QY), and Dean mouthed the lyrics to himself.

“You really should use the salt,” Castiel said as he appeared in the passenger seat. “And you’ll definitely want to fill up ahead.”

“What good would salt do?” Dean asked.

“Salt spread as a protective line keeps demons at bay. You have much to learn. I shouldn’t have spent yesterday listening to you tell me about the Decemberists.”

“So what should you have done instead?”

“Taught you the rite of exorcism.”

“What, that _Excoriamus te_ thing? Didn’t seem to work on her.”

“It’s _Exorciamus te_ ,” Castiel corrected.

“Well, it still didn’t seem to work.”

“She bound herself into that vessel. Not all demons have that trick. And she’s probably not the only one looking for you.”

That’s just great. “How many more?”

“All of them.”

“Shit. Okay. _Exorciamus te, omnis omondaz_ —”

_“Omnis immundus spiritus.”_

*

Dean had it down by the time they hit University Avenue in Palo Alto. Castiel zapped out of the car before Sam picked up the call.

“Dean. Are you really here?” Sam said.

“Yeah Sammy, I said I was coming. Did you tell anyone?”

“I didn’t even tell Jess,” Sam said.

Dean smiled. That was good. He was still a secret. “Did you have to pretend you were worried?”

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. “Dean, I am worried. What’s going on?”

“Sam, meet me out front of your place, unless that’s a private place to talk.”

“I’ll meet you out front anyway.”

*

Sam stood on the lawn in front of his apartment building, and Dean wondered how much taller he’d grown. He looked huge, wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt under a red hoodie, his hands stuffed into the kangaroo pockets. He looked up and down the street for Dean, and stiffened when he saw the car.

_Oh, Sam._

Of course he remembered it.

Dean pulled next to him, but it took a couple of tries to get the car into the space. Sam helped, beckoning to let him know he could still back up, put his hand out to signal a stop, but his expression when Dean got out of the black Impala was decidedly sour.

“You’re driving _that?”_ No hug. No clasping of hands, no pat on the back. Sam knew better, but Dean felt the lack of it. They hadn’t seen each other since Christmas before last.

Dean shrugged the thought off. “Yeah.”

 _“Why?”_ Sam looked like he smelled something bad.

“It’s still registered in John’s name and no one knew I had it. Better choice than my truck.”

Sam gave the car another burning-hot stare. “Dean, why are you on the lam?”

“Get me someplace private, Sam. Someplace no one else will be around.”

“Come in.” Sam headed towards the apartment. “My roommate is gone for the week. Jess isn’t here, she started a shift at work.”

“Okay. Be prepared to hear crazy.”

“I’m ready.”

They went up the single flight of stairs and moved to the right. Sam unlocked the door and let Dean into an apartment that made his hands itch and his chest ache. The floor under a landlord-gray carpet creaked like old wood. The baseboards, chair rail, and crown moldings had decades worth of paint on them. The seams of a sloppy papering job had been painted over and over since before he was born.

Sam turned down the music on the stereo, and led him into a kitchen with ancient sheet linoleum and potted herbs on the sill of the little window in front of the sink. His brother unlatched the old Frigidaire and retrieved a pair of beers. The faucet dripped into a water filled pan, and Dean fought mightily to ignore it.

Dean sat down at a round oak veneered table and looked around. “This place breaks my heart, Sam.”

“It’s just where I study and keep my stuff,” Sam said. “Don’t tell the landlord about the buried potential. Too many places around here have gone condo.”

“It’s Art Deco,” Dean said. “The wood under the carpet. Short lengths, arranged in a zig zag?”

“Dean,” Sam held out a Miller Genuine Draft. “How about you tell me what happened before you go all _This Old House_ on my crummy apartment?”

Dean accepted his beer and they had the first sip together in silence.

“She just kept coming, Sam,” Dean finally said. “I shot her. Killing shots. The only one that slowed her down was the one to the knee.”

Sam leaned in close, voice hushed. “But she would have killed you, Dean. She had the knife, right? Like in my dream?”

“You believe me.” Dean picked at the label on his beer.

“You’d never do that,” Sam said. “But this thing with the police, I don’t know how you’re going to explain that. It looks bad.”

“I had to leave. Castiel said--”

“Castiel?”

“He helped me get away,” Dean said. “He saved my life, and told me to run, and to read the book--”

“What are you talking about, what book?” Sam asked.

“John’s book. He kept a journal. Right up until he died, I think. I know what John was really doing for those years we were on the road.” Dean went on in spite of the high, right-angled set of Sam’s shoulders. “He was trying to figure out what killed our mom.”

Sam’s beer halted halfway to his mouth, and he set it down in time with the sink drip. “What do you mean, what killed her? She died in a fire.”

“She died in your nursery, Sam. John managed to get you out, and couldn’t save her.”

“It was electrical.” Sam picked up his bottle and sipped.

“Those start in the _walls,_ Sam. Fire marshal said the fire started in the ceiling. And that doesn’t make sense, in my professional opinion. Why wouldn’t John be able to save her, but save you?”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Sam said. “If it wasn’t for my dream I’d think you were crazy.”

“I know, Sammy. I know.”

The faucet dripped twice before Sam ventured, “Lightning strike?”

“How likely is that?”

Sam’s shoulders sank. “Not very.”

Dean smirked to himself. “Not like I’m going to give you a story that’s more likely than Mom being killed by lightning inside a house with a lightning rod on the roof.”

“Not very likely, anyway,” Sam said. “Tell me the rest. What happened?”

“Okay,” Dean said. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I need help.”

“What help do you need?”

“Castiel,” Dean looked up at the ceiling. “I need your help.”

“What—who’s Castiel?”

“Hello, Sam.”

Sam whirled around, kicking the upset chair away. He planted his feet and aimed the heel of his hand for Castiel’s nose.

Castiel caught it and Sam moved in, breaking Castiel’s hold, ready for another strike. This was no bar brawl. Sam had trained in Krav Maga in school, and he was good.

Really good, Dean realized. There would be no more picking on his little brother.

But Castiel, who seemed average and unassuming, matched Sam move for move, always defensive, always right where he needed to be to block Sam’s attacks, face impassive.

“Sam. Please stop,” Castiel said.

“Sammy it’s okay, he’s a friend.”

“Who are you?” Sam demanded.

“Castiel,” Cas said.

“Sam. Sammy. Listen to me. He’s an angel.”

Sam dropped his hands and took a step back. _“A what?”_

*

Dean might have looked as shocked and disbelieving as Sam did, when Castiel had explained everything to him. No. Less. Dean supposed the demon attack softened him up a bit. But not Sam. He had his arms crossed in front of him, when they weren’t speaking in dismissive gestures. “We’re supposed to _what?_ Save the world? And monsters are real?”

“Except for Bigfoot,” Dean said.

“Comforting, Dean.” Sam ran his fingers through his hair, and the whole mop flopped right back into place. “No such thing as Bigfoot. I can still go camping.”

“Wendigo inhabit national parks,” Castiel said. “They prefer wilderness.”

“Jesus,” Sam said.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Dean said,

Sam put his elbows on the table, slid them off, and crossed his arms back over his chest. “How can any of this be true, Dean? Why do you believe this guy?”

Dean leaned towards his brother. “You saw what he can do, Sam. The eyes, the wings—”

“No, I believe that,” Sam said. “Why do you believe that he’s here to help?”

 _Ask me something I can answer._ “Because he has. My ass was grass, and he showed up. He’s come every time I’ve prayed.”

Sam eyed the angel again. “Tell me again why you’re here, Castiel.”

“Angels can move through time, and act on branching potentialities,” Castiel said. “While I was … indisposed, an angel moved through time and put a branch in the true path of time, to prevent you from learning to become hunters.”

“Achaiah,” Dean murmured. “It’s in the journal. The angel told John that if he didn’t give us up, we’d die.”

Sam turned a stony look at Castiel, who stood by the enameled cast iron sink. “So can’t you go back and fix it?” Sam said.

“I can’t. Achaiah was very thorough,” Castiel said. “He didn’t just go back to 1989 for the ten minutes it took to tell your father to give you up. He stayed for years, before and after that moment.”

“When did he leave?” Sam asked. Water splashed into the pan.

“On your path? Five days ago.”

“That’s the day John died,” Dean said.

“That’s when the demon started killing Dean Winchesters,” Sam said.

The faucet dripped, and Dean stayed in his seat. He had to worry about demons and the end of the world instead of re-doing plaster and taking up asbestos tile. John dead, and demons hunting him. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

Castiel leaned on the counter, one hand spread over the decades-scarred countertop. “The demons must have had a way to know that Achaiah had left.”

“And so, what? You can’t share the same time-space with an angel?”

Castiel turned around and turned the hot water tap tighter, then the cold. “What Achaiah set in motion, I couldn’t go back and alter. He was very patient.”

Dean listened for another drip. It didn’t come.

“Why did he do it?”

“To guarantee the coming of the apocalypse,” Castiel said.

Sam stared at them both, scoffed, and got up from the table. “No, you lost me. This is some kind of prank. The best mindfuck anybody ever pulled. The apocalypse?”

“Sam,” Dean said. “The witch was real.”

Sam stopped dead.

“That was just a nightmare,” Sam said.

“It happened, Sammy. I saw it. It was on the bed. It was stealing your life. You couldn’t breathe. I had the shotgun, but I was scared to hit you,” Dean said. “It was real. There really was a witch on your chest. It wasn’t that…sleep paralyzation.”

“Sleep paralysis,” Sam corrected.

“Yeah that.”

“You told me it was a nightmare.” Sam looked at Dean like he wanted his big brother to tell him again.

“I did,” Dean said. “And I tried hard to forget that it really happened or the real reason why I was a natural at firearms.”

“What’s the real reason?”

“Dad--John taught me to shoot before he left us.”

Sam gaped at him. “You were _ten._ ”

“He started on my birthday, Sam. He left you with a sitter and taught me how to shoot. I’d already known how to use them by the time Uncle Jim had decided to take us on hunting trips.”

“I always dreamed that you had a shotgun, and that you wouldn’t do anything.”

“I could have killed you if I tried,” Dean said. “John didn’t kill it, either. It got away. I remember,” Dean said. “I think that’s why I got into shooting. I still wouldn’t have taken the shot with a shotgun, but with a rifle, or a pistol...I asked John for a rifle when he left.”

Sam nodded. “It had a strap. You wore it when you washed the dishes.”

He’d slept with it next to the bed. He woke up with his hand still on it. “I thought it was going to come back. I wouldn’t let you open the windows. I sat up all night with it.”

“I wouldn’t sleep unless you were there, for years.” Sam said. “That really happened. Dean. This is real.”

Dean nodded. Sam shuddered, hugged his arms around himself.

Dean didn’t know what to do. Do they hug? Dean couldn’t decide what he would do if he’d gotten a hug. It made him feel squeamish.

Sam looked up, staring at Castiel. “What was supposed to happen to us?”

“You were to stay with your father,” Castiel said. “You would both train from boyhood to be hunters. Though you, Sam, would never be content with the upheaval of the nomadic life your father led, and you would defy him to attend Stanford University.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised. “So my going to law school, it was meant to be.”

“You don’t complete your education,” Castiel said. “You return to the hunting life.”

“Why?”

“I…suspect that the reason cannot be altered,” Castiel said. “Therefore I hesitate to tell you.”

“What happens?” Sam asked with a flat stare.

Castiel sighed. “Your fiancee Jessica dies.”

“What?”

“Wait, fiancee?” Dean said.

Castiel glanced at Sam. “You never told him.”

“We never told anyone,” Sam said. “She wears the ring on a chain around her neck.”

“What if we can?” Dean said. “Change things so Jessica doesn’t die.”

“It would mean taking away the reason to kill her,” Castiel said. “Sam. You would have to leave with us.”

Sam frowned. “But I should stay here and help her.”

“If you stay, she dies exactly the same way your mother did. Pinned to the ceiling, and burned.”

All the color drained from Sam’s face.

“What killed my mom?”

“A demon,” Castiel said.

“Well let’s get him.” Sam said. “Take him down.”

“We can’t,” Castiel said. “He has underlings who do his work. His appearances on Earth are rare. And you don’t have the skills or the tools needed to—”

A knock sounded at the door. Dean’s heart clenched. Sam twisted around to look at the door. Castiel stopped talking, and laid a hand on Sam and Dean’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“You have to go,” he said.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Get in the car and go. The car is safe. It’s warded. Stay in the car until I come.”

“Cas, what—”

 _“Go,”_ Castiel said, and they were sitting in the Impala.

“What the hell?” Sam exclaimed.

“He zapped us,” Dean explained. “Whoever it was at the door, i guess it wasn’t the Avon Lady.”

Sam opened the passenger door, and Dean grabbed his arm.

“We can’t just--” Sam said, and then gasped. Lurid orange and bright blue-white light shone through the windows of Sam’s apartment.

“Looks like we got found,” Dean said. “Let’s go.”

Dean felt in his pocket for the keys. Sam twisted in his seat, watching the lights flash, and go dark.

“You can’t leave him!”

“Cas made us,” Dean said. “And we can’t face demons yet.”

Dean turned the key in the ignition and pulled the Impala into the street.

“How will we know he’s okay?”

“He’ll show up,” Dean said. “He teleports.”

He followed the road back to the highway. It was the only place he knew how to get to, and they needed to get some open road behind them.

“You trust him?” Sam asked. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “Because he hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“It’s been two days!”

“A lot can happen in two days, Sam.”

Sam twisted around in the seat, as if he could still see his apartment. “We have to go back and help.”

“What else can I do, Sam?” Dean asked. “You did okay going toe to toe with the angel but he didn’t even break a sweat holding you off. I shot a demon, remember? Four killing blows and one to the kneecap, and that last one just meant she kept crawling.”

“There’s got to be something we can do.”

“There is,” Dean said. “Not get caught while Cas is covering for us.”

“Where do we go?”

“He said stay in the car.”

“Yeah, but where do we go?”

“South Dakota.”

“To Uncle Bobby?”

“He knows something about this,” Dean said. “He has to. Let’s go find out what.”

“But I don’t have a change of clothes,” Sam said. “What about money?”

Dean could have laughed, but he just said, “Money’s handled. Castiel will take care of the rest.”

 


	4. All Moments, Past, Present, Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just rearranging things, moving chapters from part 2 onto part 1 to make this story available in a single work. I made a huge mistake, breaking it up.

## Act 2: Caught in the Amber of the Moment

Singer Auto looked like a junkyard.

Well, a good part of it was. Bobby Singer did a little business in salvage and rebuilding parts. Dean drove the Impala into the drive, flanked by stacks of crushed cars just waiting to be shipped out and recycled into washing machines, and the side to side jouncing through a pothole woke Sam where the crackle of gravel roadway did not.

“What?” he asked, and hit his knee on the glove box. “Fuck.”

“Rise and shine, Sammy. We’re here.”

Sam blinked sleep out of his eyes. “Where’s Cas?”

“Hasn’t been back since he brought you your stuff,” Dean said.

“I had to tell her to stay away from the apartment,” Sam said.

They’d fought about it when Dean was driving away, but he had relented and let Sam jump out and make a call at a payphone in San Mateo. Castiel had been frantic when he heard what they’d done. He’d told them to run, and Dean knew that meant leaving no trace - and telephone calls could be tracked.

He hadn’t let Sam make another call for the rest of the trip.

“I know,” Dean said. “I get it. I do. I would have done the same.”

“You didn’t leave anyone behind?” Sam asked.

Dean stared at the crumpled nose of a Volkswagen Rabbit. “Co-workers. Pool tournament buddies. No romantic interests.”

Sam looked out the window and shifted. Dead cars rusted everywhere. “It’s the same,” Sam said. “But different.”

Old, rusted cars listed in their places, cut through by gravel paths leading to storage warehouses, the auto garage, and Bobby’s house. The house was a 1920’s craftsman, painted blue at some point in the 20th century. The paint had come off in patches, revealing an underlayer of green. The windowsills and front porch were white, the shutters a peeling red.

They pulled up to the auto garage, where Bobby had been meticulously cleaning some auto part or another with a toothbrush. Part and brush rested forgotten in his hands as the older man stared at Sam and Dean through the windshield of the Impala.

Dean cut the ignition and they got out. Bobby didn’t greet them, didn’t say a word until they halted, five feet away.

“You read that damn book,” Bobby said.

“A demon tried to kill me the night you left,” Dean said.

Bobby blinked. “A demon? And you lived?”

“I had help,” Dean said.

“You and what army, boy?” Bobby pointed the toothbrush at them. “You can’t kill demons. You can only exorcise them, if you’re wily enough to hold one still for that long. The liturgy’s--”

“Wordy,” Sam said.

Bobby’s gimlet stare went from Dean, to Sam, and back. “Did you happen to get attacked by a demon while you had John’s journal open to the right page, and said demon waited politely for you to finish?”

“I had help,” Dean repeated. “An angel helped me.”

“A _what?_ ”

“It seems you know all about what’s in John’s journal, Uncle Bobby,” Sam said.

“Course I do, boy,” Bobby said. “I’ve got a set of my own, and a collection from other hunters before me.”

“And you never told us.”

“The idea was to keep you safe,” Bobby said. “You were kids. Innocent kids. I wanted you out of it years before your old man gave you up—”

“Abandoned us.” Sam interrupted.

“It was the only way, boy,” Bobby said. “He tried calling and asking and he got told to go to counseling, money management seminars, and AA.”

“From what I remember of my old man, that isn’t exactly bad advice,” Dean pointed out.

“Never mind that,” Bobby said. “What’s all this about an angel?”

Dean put his hands together in front of his chest. He didn’t need to; he was just being a ham. “Castiel, if you have your ears on, get your feathery ass down here,” Dean said.

“Hello, Bobby.”

Bobby spun around and there was a shotgun in his hands so fast Dean hardly saw where it came from. He took aim, but Dean lunged forward and pushed the barrel up.

“Bobby stop!”

“Dean, he wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“Still. It’s--It’s rude.”

Castiel smiled at Dean’s quip. He turned his attention to Bobby, who was staring with wide eyes.

“Fear not,” Castiel said. “I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord, and I am on Earth to protect Dean Winchester, Saviour of the World. It’s good to see you ali-again.”

Bobby’s jaw dropped.

“Balls.”

“And I need your help,” Castiel said.

“What the hell is going on here?” Bobby asked.

“Perhaps we should explain inside,” Dean said. “We brought peace offering beer.”

*

“This was supposed to keep you out of danger,” Bobby growled. “This was supposed to be for the best. John got flimflammed by an angel?”

“He couldn’t have known,” Dean said.

“Intent pales in the face of results,” Sam said.

Dean twisted in his seat to glare at Sam. “Why won’t you forgive him?”

“Why do _you_ want to forgive him so bad?” Sam shot back. “He ditched you too.”

“I thought it was my fault,” Dean said. “Because I left you alone, and that shtriga nearly killed you.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean,” Bobby said. “That angel--”

“Achaiah,” Castiel said.

“Sounds like a rheumy throat,” Bobby grumbled. “That angel had already shown up and got right into the short con, prophesying danger for you, and then surprise! Look what happened! John took  it hook, line, and sinker, and frankly I don’t blame him for it.”

“He wouldn’t have abandoned us if not for that, Sam. You’re blaming him for something he wasn’t even supposed to do.”

Sam shook his head, staring at the top of his beer. “He did it. And I was already afraid of him by then, Dean.”

Dean set his beer down. “He never laid a hand on you.”

“I saw him lay his hands on you.”

“He never hit me!”

“He grabbed you hard enough to leave bruises,” Sam said. “He shouted in your face until you were crying so hard you couldn’t stop the snot. I saw all of that. I saw what happened to you, and for me it was coming up.”

Dean hated the raw feeling in his throat, the need to run, or fight with his fists, with his words. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It _was_ that bad, Dean,” Sam said. “No matter what you try to make it. No matter how much reason he had, how scared he was for us.”

Dean gripped both his knees and squeezed. You were supposed to let this shit go, but Sam had kept it. He’d never forgive, he’d never get over it. “Sam, we need to agree to disagree, here.”

“Because you’re still trying to be John Winchester’s good son, make your old man proud, Stand up straight, say _yes sir,_ watch over us with a thirty-aught-six in one shitty motel after another--I _hate_ motels. Hate them.” Sam’s left knee bounced fast, agitated. “And we’re going right back on the path, aren’t we? Living from a duffel bag, sleeping between the miles.”

“You think I don’t hate this?” Dean slammed the heel of his hand on the table. “You think knowing I’m being hunted by a demon I can’t kill is fun? I pissed myself, Sam, and then I was so scared I didn’t change my pants until I’d put a hundred miles on the road.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“I had a house,” Dean said. “Decent savings. Good work. I was going to do something with that. Maybe it’s not a law degree, but it was mine.”

“I know.”

“And I get it,” Dean said. Sam had backed down, but a bright red heat grew up the back of his neck, crackled over his head, and kept on. “You never asked for this. You want your school and California and a girlfriend who isn’t in Schrodinger's Box.”

“Dean!” Bobby looked appalled. Sam’s face crumpled.

“Sam—shit,” Dean swore. “Stupid fucking idiot, shut up.”

“What if she dies anyway?” Sam whispered.

“Sam I’m sorry,” Dean said. “Sam.”

He reached out but Sam jerked away so violently he upset his beer, stood up and rushed out of the kitchen.

“My big stupid fucking mouth,” Dean cursed.

Castiel stirred beside him, and said, “Dean. Jessica died in the small hours of November 2nd. If that point is fixed…I can go and check.”

“Do it,” Dean said.

Castiel disappeared.

Bobby came back with a rag and mopped up the beer.

“You have a way with words, Dean,” Bobby said.

Dean hunched his shoulders and muttered, “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“A lot like your father, in fact.”

Dean bowed his head. “I shouldn’t have said that. It just popped out before I could think--”

“That’s right, you didn’t think,” Bobby said. “You need to think, Dean. I’m not happy about this, but you need to learn what it means to be a hunter. Which means you’re in training boy, starting yesterday. Go apologize to your brother and get him back in here.”

*

Dean found them (forgiving a few wrong turns into weedy gaps between cars) by tracking the sound of a man crying.

Sam and Castiel sat on a vinyl covered bench seat, probably ripped out of the corpse of the Dodge Caravan that listed beside them. Sam sobbed on Castiel’s shoulder, and Dean wanted the ground to swallow him up.

“Sam,” Dean said. “Sam, fuck I’m sorry I—”

Sam came up out of Castiel’s arms and clocked Dean. Pain flared bright red in his jaw, blood filling his mouth. He stumbled, caught his heel on a tire rim, and landed on his back.

“Listen to this,” Sam said. “If anyone deserves to hear it, it’s you.”

He dropped a cell phone on Dean’s belly and walked away.

“Cas. Make sure he’s all right,” Dean said around a mouthful of blood. There was a tear inside his mouth. The teeth on that side hurt to touch, but seemed solid. Dean wondered if this was what next week felt like.

Castiel frowned at him. “You have a way of hurting without effort, Dean. You shouldn’t have said that.”

“I know.”

“Listen to the voicemail,” Castiel said. “You need to hear it.”

Dean was going to be sick.

The voicemail began with a woman’s voice, tight and nervous. “Sam? I know you told me in that voicemail to run away, but I’ve got a police officer with me so I can get a few things. He says they just want to talk to you, that they know it’s not what it seems--”

Dean’s insides plummeted to the ground when he heard the click of a doorknob and then a gagging, choked gasp. “Oh, my god, Sam? Oh my god. Sam! Where are you? There’s blood all over the living room, the apartment’s trashed, oh my god. I don’t want -- what kind of trouble are you in?”

A muffled sob, a sniffle. “What happened, Sam? I can’t believe that you--that you did this. There’s so much blood...What’s going on? First your brother and now you…Call me ba—”

A door opening, a scared gasp, a man’s voice. “Jessica? Don’t hang up.”

“Brady! Brady, something awful—how did you get past the police? I don’t know where Sam is, look at this place.”

“It’s okay,” the man said. “It’s okay. I need you to give Sam a message.”

“What are you talking about? What message?”

“This.”

Jessica started screaming.

She screamed until the crackling roar of fire overwhelmed her voice, burned it out. The fire crackled on and on, through shouts of “Police!” and gunfire.

Then silence. Then:

“End of messages. Press 1 to hear the next saved mess—”

Dean hung up the phone and stayed kneeling in the dirt for a long time.

Castiel came and took the Nokia out of Dean’s hands. He opened the case and removed the chip that made the phone trackable. He dropped it on the ground and crushed the little plastic chip under his heel.

“I wish neither of you had heard that.”

“My fault,” Dean said.

“A fixed point in time,” Castiel said. “Jessica Moore died on the day she died on the true path - November 2nd, 2005.”

“Twenty-two years to the day,” Dean said. “My mother.”

“I know.”

“Why did it happen, Cas?”

“Sam had escaped the life of a hunter, in this time and the other. Jessica died for the most dastardly of reasons - to fuel Sam’s pain and to instill a thirst for vengeance.”

“I want them all dead, Cas. I want to destroy them, for what they did to Sammy.”

“And your thirst for vengeance too, I see,” Castiel said, quietly.

“Can you blame me?” Dean demanded. He craned his neck to look up at Castiel, framed by the setting sun. “Bad enough to come after me, after Sam, but she was innocent, and we could have saved her.”

“A fixed point in time, Dean,” Castiel said. “I am sorry.”

He helped Dean to his feet and grasped Dean’s forearm. His touch was cool, but the pain in Dean dulled enough that he didn’t feel guilt and loathing.

“It still feels like my fault.”

“I know,” Castiel said. “Come inside.”

Castiel led the way, and he didn’t let go.

*

Sam sat in the kitchen with Bobby, who was rubbing one hand across his shoulders like he was a little kid. Bobby talked to him quietly, and Sam shielded his face from Bobby, but he still nodded, head cocked towards him to listen.

Dean hung back, unwilling to break in on the scene. Castiel let go of Dean’s arm, but put his hand on his shoulder instead, and Dean—

Dean just stood there. He turned his head to look at Castiel, close beside him. Castiel glanced back at Dean for a moment before turning his attention back to the kitchen.

After another moment, Dean did too.

Castiel was warm. He radiated heat, this close. Dean’s other side felt cold in comparison. Colder, anyway. But it made waiting for them to turn around and judge him easier.

They did, after a few minutes. Bobby saw them and his head came up. Sam looked at Bobby, and then turned around to stare at Dean’s fat lip, throbbing jaw, and the hot tears Dean couldn’t stop spilling down his neck, soaking the collar of his Strokes t-shirt.

“Sam,” Dean said.

“We really couldn’t save her?” Sam asked, looking between the two of them.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Castiel said.

“It was a fucking stupid, hurtful, asshole thing to say, Sam,” Dean said.

“It was,” Sam said.

“And we could have tried to save her.”

“We could,” Sam said. “But we would have failed.”

“I wish we had tried.”

“Me too,” Sam said. “I wish it was me, instead of her.”

Bobby nodded, and Sam caught the gesture.

Castiel said, “You would have failed.”

Sam looked at Castiel. “You’re sure.”

“I am…reasonably certain,” Castiel said.

“I dreamed of her dying,” Sam said. “Right after my birthday. I dreamed of her on the ceiling in our bedroom, above me, and then flames.”

“Oh Sam.”

“And then it changed,” Sam said. “The night you were attacked, it changed. I saw the phone drop out of her hands, I saw Brady, his eyes turned black like the woman from my other dream. Another demon.”

“Demons are rare, boys,” Bobby said. “And that seems to be changing where you’re concerned. You don’t have time for Hunter 101. You need to become demon killers.”

“I thought you couldn’t kill a demon.”

“We’ll figure out how,” Bobby said. “Now, you remember where everything is, Dean. Fix up some supper. Sam, get me John’s journal. We need to figure out what your father learned about Mary’s death before he died.”

“What about Cas?”

“I require neither food or drink,” Castiel said. “I will scout the area.”

The warmth where Castiel’s hand left Dean’s shoulder chilled.

*

Dean made a tuna casserole with pasta and didn’t comment on how much salt Bobby added to his. He gave each of them books and told them that he’d expect them to have questions about what they had read in the morning, and kicked them out of the kitchen while he cleaned up.

Sam brushed past him and went straight upstairs to read. Dean found a chair that wasn’t Bobby’s favorite and got to work. In spite of what Bobby had said, this hand-written book was like John’s journal if someone had made a formal, organized copy of it.

Dean was crazily reminded of old D&D books. _I’m reading a Monster Manual. For real_. But it was a handy field guide, Dean thought, and when he went up to bed he’d intended to read it more.

But they were in their old room, the one with the twin beds on either side of the walls bordered by sloped ceilings. Sam had his curled up length wound under the covers, reading.

“Just grabbing some stuff before I sleep on the couch,” Dean said.

“You may as well stay,” Sam said. “I’m going to dream tonight. I’ll have a nightmare. I can feel it lurking back there.”

“You want me to handle it?”

“You know how.” Sam turned another page.

Okay, chilly. But Dean changed into pajama pants and kept his t-shirt on, and got into the only bed he’d thought of as his until he was eleven. He settled in and read about Okami, and found that he recognized what a lot of the weapons in the trunk of the Impala were for. He’d go in and re-organize them, and see what if anything he needed to replenish—

 _What the hell,_ Dean thought. He was treating the Impala like his work van, planning on tidying and inventorying the supplies and keeping a healthy on-hand stock. _The tools of the trade_.

He wondered if that other Dean had his same desire for orderly, organized objects. He wondered how that Dean found love. How he even knew what it was, for sure. He tried to figure out what kind of person could love someone like him. They must have been a hunter too. Somehow Dean couldn’t imagine stepping into the sort of road he saw in front of him and being able to get off it just in time for dinner every day.

But that wasn’t helping him go to sleep, so he closed his eyes and tried to recall a song in his head, as accurately as he could, while breathing out slow.

He listened to Kim Deal sing, “I am the makeup on your eyes” and then everything was soft, warm, and black.

*

Until the screaming.

Dean was out of bed and turning on every light in the room before he’d even really engaged conscious thought. He stood well away from Sam and called out, “Sam, look at me and tell me where you are. Sam, look at me!”

“No! Noooooo!” Sam kicked the covers away and got to his feet. Oh. This was going to be a bad one.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled. “It’s a dream!”

“Get away!” Sam yelled. “Dean! Dean Nooo!”

“Sam, I’m here, I’m safe, Sam it’s a nightmare. Listen to me, Sam.” Dean didn’t yell any more. He kept quiet enough that Sam would stop to listen.

“Don’t do it, Dean,” Sam said, his eyes bright with tears. “Don’t do it. Don’t pick up the knife.”

“There’s no knife, Sam. No knife. I won’t pick it up.”

“It will hurt you,” Sam said. He wasn’t awake. Sam used to sleepwalk, talk in his sleep, a voice from a dream world. “It will.”

“Okay, Sam. I won’t pick up the knife. Come and lie down,” Dean said. “I’ll be right here. And you’ve got to protect me, right? Make sure I don’t pick it up.”

Sam got into bed and pulled Dean down with him. This was cramped even when they were kids. Now that Dean was fully grown and Sam was a giant, there was no way they could do anything but cling to each other. Sam half buried him, trapping him with one arm and one leg thrown over his body, held close as a teddy bear.

Dean had figured he would just sit up next to Sam until he settled. This was too close. You didn’t get body-pillowed by your humongous kid brother and get to call it normal. But Sam needed him now, no matter how much he wanted to punch Dean again in the morning.

Dean closed his eyes and decided he’d try to break loose in an hour.

*

“Oh my God.”

Dean opened his eyes.

Sam sat up and tried to roll away from Dean but there wasn’t nearly enough bed for that. “What the hell did I do?”

Dean shrugged and rubbed his eyes. “You were right about the nightmare.”

“Did I sleepwalk? I haven’t done that in years.”

“You did.” Dean slid out of bed and crossed the few feet to his own. “You never really woke up. You had a classic Sam Winchester night terror, total blast from the past. You kept telling me not to pick up the knife.”

“I don’t remember that,” Sam said. “But I do remember something. I’ve got to write it down.”

“Do that,” Dean said. “Dibs on the shower.” He needed to wash the awkward off. He took a pile of fresh clothes with him, but Sam was already scribbling away in a hardbound journal.

Dean went downstairs, where Bobby was standing in the kitchen, talking on one of…six phones he had mounted on the wall. “You make sure you get him whatever he needs,” Bobby said. “He’ll find out what’s behind these disappearances. Yes. The FBI is always ready to help.”

He hung up.

“What was that?”

“I don’t go on the road any more,” Bobby said. “I keep a pretty good lore library, and I impersonate supervisors from all manner of federal agencies to help other hunters with their cover while they’re investigating.”

“Wow,” Dean said. “That’s--” a felony. Fraud. Grifting. Confidence games. It was sleazy as hell.

“Half this job is social engineering,” Bobby said. “Sam had himself a doozy last night, didn’t he.”

“Three alarms at least,” Dean said. “Was yelling about me picking up a knife that would hurt me, but he doesn’t remember that now. He’s up there writing down what he does remember.”

“Well don’t just stand there,” Bobby said, and held out his cup. “The pot’s not getting any fresher.”

Dean filled Bobby’s mug and poured another for himself. “I haven't finished the book you gave me, but I think I want to make ammunition. Specialized. Silver bullets, that sort of thing.”

“I think we could probably work on that.”

“And I need to inventory the trunk,” Dean said. “Make sure that we’ve got a full kit, figure out what needs to go in.”

“Holy water,” Bobby said. “Iron shot, salt rounds. And you need to learn how to make a Devil’s Trap, because snaring those black-eyed bastards is your best bet so you can exorcise them.”

“And the wards too. Do they have to be visible, or can you paint them on with say holy water? We can’t go vandalizing every motel in America.”

“Squirt guns,” Sam said.

“What?”

Sam was dressed. Jeans, v-neck t-shirt, plaid work shirt over top. He kept his attention on the coffee pot, and then the cup. “Supersoakers full of holy water.”

No eye contact. Good idea. “Good idea.”

“Bad night, Sam?” Bobby asked.

“I had another dream.”

“I heard,” Bobby said.

Sam tried to shrink, a bit. “Yeah. Sorry. But listen, I dreamed about our old house in Lawrence.”

“Sam, how do you know that? You were a baby.”

“I’ve got pictures,” Sam said. “I’ve stared at them for hours. I know that house. But there’s something there. Something dark, something violent, feeding on old evil.”

“Are you sure?” Dean said. “Because I’m not really keen on going back there.”

“Look, I’ve read the journal,” Sam said. “John didn’t keep a really good record of what he’d learned about Mom’s death. Maybe if we’re going to figure out what’s going on now, we have to figure out what went on then.”

“Maybe so,” Dean said. “But are we ready to fight whatever we find hanging out in our house?”

“Listen, supernatural events that center on homes are usually vengeful spirits, or they’re poltergeists.” Bobby frowned and and thought for a few moments. Sam poured coffee, then filled it up with milk and sugar. He sipped, waiting for Bobby to finish pondering. “Poltergeists aren’t what I’d pick for your first rodeo, but you might be able to get some help on the ground.”

“What do you mean?”

“John told me that when he started looking for answers, he went to psychics working in Lawrence. He found one who he thought was the real deal.”

“Bobby, do you have Internet?” Sam asked.

“Do I have Internet,” Bobby snickered. “Son, the router password is expelliarmus. Knock yourself out.”

Sam went back upstairs to fetch his laptop.

“The storm’s passed?” Bobby asked.

“Maybe. Doubt it,” Dean said. “I fucked up.”

“He’s still your brother.”

“No excuse.”

“Just watch your mouth when you’re upset, Dean.”

“I wasn’t…”

Bobby gave him a look. “Don’t shit me, boy.”

“Yeah. Keep my mouth shut when I’m … mad.”

“Since you’re here, I’m going to use you,” Bobby said. “There’s a fresh dozen eggs in the fridge. I like mine scrambled.”

“Scrambled.” Dean took his coffee to the counter next to the stove. “Coming up.”

Dean had a skillet of bacon and was whisking eggs in the pot when Sam stumped down the stairs.  “Okay, Psychics in Lawrence, Kansas. There’s someone named El Divino. And get this, the Mysterious Mister Fortinsky. Someone named Missouri Moseley—”

“That one,” Bobby and Dean said together, and Sam looked up.

“I went to Missouri, and I learned the truth,” Dean said. “It’s in the first part of the journal.”

“John had called the psychic ‘she’ when he talked to me about her,” Bobby said.

“Did you know John back then?” Sam asked.

“This was a few years later,” Bobby said.

“All right, then, I guess we’re going to Lawrence,” Dean said. “Crash course in vengeful spirits and poltergeists, and we’ll get on the road.”

*

Sam didn’t talk to Dean on the trip beyond the simplest functional phrases. They traded off driving in shifts, the other grabbing a nap in the back seat. They stopped at a Biggerson’s for lunch. Sam kept his nose in a book on demonology, and grunted in response to any conversational openers Dean tried.

It was starting to hurt. But then Dean remembered that as awful as he thought that voicemail from Jess was, he wasn’t in love with her when he listened to her die, and let Sam have his space.

It was mid-afternoon when they pulled up in front of the house where Missouri Moseley … practiced her craft, Dean supposed. Sam had wanted to go to the house first, but Dean wanted to secure more information first, and Sam had grudgingly agreed.

Dean loved the house. He could tell that it was a little dower cottage that survived the destruction of the bigger house it had originally been built with, and the long walk down the front yard was like walking into another era.

“That’s a bottle tree,” Dean said. “Real and actual.”

He’d seen some in a magazine, and thought they looked eerie and neat, the empty bottles swinging from tree branches.

“It’s a protective thing. The bottles are supposed to trap evil spirits.”

Sam looked defensive when Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “Bobby gave me a manuscript about hoodoo to read.”

“Hoodoo.”

“African American folk magic,” Sam said. “And look. That’s an apple tree,” Sam said. “It’s for harmony in the home. And I bet all these flowers and herbs are used in spells.”

“Come on,” Dean scoffed. “Spells?”

“Dean, you’re here because I’ve got the Shining, you were attacked by a demon, we’re asking for information on two supernatural deaths and we’re going on Baby’s First Poltergeist Hunt. Spells aren’t that far behind.”

“Spells. I don’t even know what my life is, any more.”

“Ask your angel boyfriend.” Sam knocked on the door before Dean could answer that in kind.

Probably a good thing, considering the last time.

The door opened. Dean re-set his assumed eye-contact level down a touch, and saw a middle aged black woman with curly black hair and deep brown eyes. She smiled at both of them like they were only just come home.

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” she said with a sunshine breaking through clouds smile. “Well? Take your boots off and come in.”

*

She had them in a formal looking living room with none of the stuff Dean had expected to see in the office of a psychic. No crystal ball, no fringed scarves or velvet curtains. It looked like a parlor from back in time. The floor needed fifty years of wax lifted off it, the dark wood could do with a stripping and re-staining to something lighter, but this little room came with all original parts, up to and including the wreath of leaves and blossoms painted around the plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling.

It smelled…interesting. Dean was used to the scents of lemon, pine, or lavender in cleaners, but this room smelled like earth and grass and yes, a little lemon, but as a whiff. Breathing it deep calmed him down.

“You always liked this room, Dean,” Missouri said. “Though I haven’t seen you since you were four. Sam was a baby. You held him on your lap.”

“You knew us,” Sam said. “And our father.”

“I did,” Missouri said. “And I hoped you would come back and tell me - did John ever find the demon who killed your mother? The man with yellow eyes.”

“You knew,” Sam said.

“I knew, Sam,” Missouri said. “And I knew you’d grow up to power. It woke up in you, didn’t it? The dreams, the visions.”

Sam looked poleaxed. Dean couldn’t blame him. “I don’t — is that what happens when I see those images?”

“Premonitions. You can see the future, even if you don’t understand what it is that you see. It’s a hard burden, having the sight. And I’m so sorry about your fiancée, Sam.” Missouri patted his hand. “You couldn’t have stopped it, and you wouldn’t have died in her place. They would have slain the sword, given the chance.”

“Slain the sword?”

“Dean,” Missouri said. “He’s a sword of terrible righteousness.”

 _Me? No way._ “What, I have powers too?” Dean asked.

“Nothing beyond clever hands, a strong heart, and a keen mind, Dean.”

Dean leaned against the tufted back of the sofa. “So Sam’s the important one.”

“Stop that,” Missouri scolded. “You stop thinking a power makes you special. It’s a _weight._ And you’ll have to be there for Sam when the time comes for him to cast it away.”

“What does that mean?”

Missouri cocked her head, lowering her eyelids as she sought inner knowledge. “I don’t know,” Missouri said. “Sometimes the words just come through.”

“Missouri, we’re here because I had a dream,” Sam said. “About our old house. Where Mom died.”

“So you’re hunting, like your father. But you don’t have the look about you. I know hunters.”

“John gave us up when Sam was six.”

“He thought we were out,” Sam said. “So did Bobby Singer. But John died last week, and then I had this dream…”

*

Missouri listened, and filled in what Sam thought but didn’t say. She held his hand when he talked about Jessica, and murmured, “Dean was sick and too scared to see what you showed him. It’s not your fault, but he lashed out and he’s sorry, Sam.”

Sam nodded and said “I know he is,” but he didn’t look at him.

“That’s all I’ll say,” Missouri said. “Now you have to listen to me. If there is a malevolent spirit in that house, you’re going to need protection charms. Come and learn how to make them. You’ll need to replace the charms in your Daddy’s car eventually, so you may as well learn how.”

She directed them step by step in the making of charm bags, and talked to them about the other purposes a charm bag would come to, about the simple magic of root and herb. “You’ll be learning more magic than this, all the high conjurations and the like, but never underestimate the humbler magic.”

*

Sam and Dean had sacks of protective charms, and Dean liked the herby smell of them sitting in the backseat where Sam sat diagonally to make room for his mile-long legs, since Missouri had the front seat.

“It’s abandoned,” Missouri said. “No one has lived here in years.”

“Because it’s haunted?” Dean asked.

“Even when the evil in this house was dormant it still radiated darkness,” Missouri said. “Now that I’m closer to it I can feel it.”

“It’s malignant,” Sam said. “It’s hungry.”

“You can sense that?”

Sam shifted around in the back seat. “Yeah.”

“You boys stick together,” Missouri said. “Things are going to get hairy. It knows we’re here.”

*

Dean thought hunting was the dumbest, most dangerous thing a person could decide to do, and he wasn’t sure Sam would disagree. The house was mostly empty, but they’d had to dodge ripped off doors, get back to their feet after getting tripped, and Dean had a shard of glass in his hand from a window imploding when he tried to put the charm bag in the east corner of the house’s second floor.

They got all the charm bags in, though. That’s what mattered.

“This is crazy. Who does this willingly?” Dean slid down the wall to sit down and breathe heavy. It’d be a miracle if they managed to get out of there before someone called the police. Maybe they made a noise complaint. Cops didn’t rush to those.

He needed some water, though. The water was off in the house. Not that he’d drink it.

“I’m glad that’s over,” Sam said.

“Boys,” Missouri said, looking around. “Dean, get up.”

“Huh?”

He looked at Missouri, who was looking around for something she couldn’t quite see, and then gasped, staring across the room at an oversized china cabinet.

It rattled.

Dean put a hand under him to get on his feet.

It was too late. The cabinet ripped off the wall and rushed toward him.

_Shit._

“NO!” Sam shouted, and somehow it…missed, striking the wall just off to his right.

Dean got to his feet, staring at Sam’s outstretched hand.

“Behind you!” Sam shouted.

Dean whirled around to face a woman made of fire. Nothing around it burned, and it headed straight for him, hands outstretched. He had one shot,  or this whole thing would end where it began.

“Sorry, Cas,” he muttered, and lifted the shotgun for one final try at dispersing it with salt rounds.

“DEAN STOP!” Sam yelled. “I can see her! I can see - MOM!”

The flames dissipated, and Sam was right. It was. It was.

“Mom.” Dean wondered if he’d breathed in a bit of glass that got stuck in his throat.

She smiled at them. So beautiful.

“Mom.”

“Dean.”

But she walked right by and stopped in front of Sam.

“Sam,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She just looked…sad, and blinked a few feet away. She stared up at the ceiling.

“You, get out of my house,” she said. “Get away from my sons.”

She became a woman of flame and chased it away.

*

They left after that, and drove straight to Missouri’s house. She tucked them back into that little sitting room she said Dean had liked as a child, and brought them coffee and little cookies.

Dean picked one up, bit into it. Buttery, not too sweet, but it glued up in his mouth. He washed it down with coffee and took another.

Missouri turned to go out again, but Sam caught her hand.  “Was that real? Was that really—”

“The charms broke enough of the hold that evil had on that house,” Missouri said. “She was able to go after the malevolent spirit and destroy it.”

“Do we really have to…” Dean swallowed. “Go and…burn her bones?”

Missouri shook her head. “She’s gone. She defeated the spirit, but she destroyed herself doing it.”

“She told me she was sorry,” Sam said. “But for what?”

Dean watched Missouri give Sam that same, sad look. “I know I should have all the answers, but I don’t know.”

She looked away, and Dean knew she was lying.

 ****  
  



	5. Always Have Existed, Always Will Exist

They dropped Missouri off with big hugs and exhortations to come back and visit her again, but Dean couldn’t shake the idea that she was lying. Hiding something. Same thing.

He was cruising through beautiful downtown Lawrence when Castiel appeared in the middle of the backseat of the Impala and said, “I have a lead.”

“Nice to see you too, Cas.”

Castiel’s expression turned grumpy. “Of course, I should observe the niceties. Hello, Sam. Hello, Dean. How are you?”

“Do you want an answer, or will ‘fine’ do?”

“I understand. I couldn’t be of more help. I have to be careful how I exert myself. I’m glad the china cabinet missed, Dean.”

“You know about that?”

“I saw it. You’re driving the wrong way.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You need to go west. Manning, Colorado. You need to find Daniel Elkins and convince him to tell you about his demon-killing gun.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell Bobby you’ll be late,” Castiel said.

Dean blew out an exasperated breath to the sound of Castiel’s wings.

“We’re going to be more than just late,” Sam said, looking through the road atlas. “It’s a nine hour drive. We’ll have to stop at a motel.”

“Wonderful,” Dean said. “You hungry?”

“I’ll get hungry when we’re on a deserted stretch of road that doesn’t have a diner for miles.”

“Good idea,” Dean said. “I was figuring that’s when I’d get hungry too.”

*

“Sam, do you remember seeing the name Elkins in John’s journal?” Dean asked. He didn’t want to take it out, not in the middle of Hay’s American Diner _(open all nite!)_

The place was jammed with people, and most of them were eating burgers. Dean had ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and scoffed at Sam’s Cobb salad selection.

“You know you will have to slow down on the burgers eventually.”

“Keyword, Sammy. Eventually. As in not today. Enjoy your rabbit food.”

Sam made that bitchy face at him. Dean was glad to see it. Maybe the water was passing under the bridge.

“Elkins.” Sam looked upwards without really seeing anything, the way he did when he did complex math problems in his head. “Daniel Elkins?”

“Yes,” Dean said. “It’s got to be in the book somewhere.”

“Do you think Cas is holding out on us?”

“Are you kidding? He’s totally holding out on us,” Dean said.

“Why would he do that?”

Dean pondered this over a perfectly crispy fry with just enough salt. “I think it has to do with his fixed points in time thing.”

“Because if he tells us too much of what’s coming, we won’t get back on the true path,” Sam said. “I’ve been thinking about that. What happens to us?”

“We…do the thing Cas talked about,” Dean said, glancing around the diner.

“Doesn’t that seem crazy to you?” Sam asked.

“Well, yeah.” Dean sucked up milk through a straw. “I mean I’m past thinking, _this is impossible_  after what happened back there, but now I’m into _who am I kidding, I can’t do this._ ”

Sam looked around at the other diners, and then back down at his Cobb salad.

“Okay Sam. What is it, something’s eating you.”

Sam leaned in and lowered his voice. “Dean, I think I moved the china cabinet.”

Dean blinked. “Come again?”

“The cabinet, it was coming right for you,” Sam said. “And I freaked out, I remember shouting, and I put my hand out, like that would do anything. And it missed you.”

“So you went all _Carrie_ and it moved?”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “But I think I should…I feel kinda spacey.”

“You gonna be sick?”

“Eating should help,” Sam said. “I think we should stop here. The motel that’s right here. It’s probably got trap rates but it’s my turn to drive next and I can’t.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Okay, Sam.”

*

“Still not better?”

“I’m not gonna hurl. But I really want to lie down.”

“Check in,” Dean said. “I got this bill.”

Sam got up and stumbled a bit when he got to his great big flipper feet. “I’m okay,” he said. “Just got tangled up.”

Dean watched his brother go, one hand on the wall for support.

“Naw, Sam. You’re not okay.”

Dean reckoned the total in his head and added ten bucks on top just in case he was wrong, and caught up to his brother.

“I — my head hurts,” Sam said in a small voice.

“Shit,” Dean said. “Castiel! We need you, buddy!”

Buddy?

“Dean.” Castiel took the sagging Sam away from him as if he were a bundle of sticks. “Ask for twenty-three. It’s empty.”

Dean stepped into the office and did just that.

*

Castiel put the sleep whammy on Sam and he went out like a light.

“Get the salt,” Castiel said. “You need to use the salt.”

“It’ll make a mess,” Dean objected. “Chambermaids don’t get paid enough for half the shit they have to clean up after.”

“There’s a dustbuster under the passenger side seat. Bring it in and charge it, then you can vacuum up the salt in the morning.”

“That’s clever.” Dean went out to fetch it.

He salted the doors and windows to Castiel’s satisfaction, and said quietly, “Do you have to go?”

“You can speak normally,” Castiel said. “Sam wouldn’t wake up if you had a rock concert in here.”

“Oh. Well, I thought the name Elkins was familiar, and I was going to look through the book and see if I could find his name.”

There was no kitchenette in this room, no table to sit at, so Dean sat down on the edge of the bed. “Uh…”

Castiel plunked himself down right beside him, the edges of their thighs pressed together, and gently moved the book to share between them. He turned the pages carefully, and scanned over each page’s writing and illustrations. “Do you have a visual memory of the page?”

Dean blinked, but then a picture popped in his head. “Left hand page, front half, something like an arrow head with horns, and an inverted cross with an asterisk on top.”

Castiel let Dean flip through the pages, and planted his hand on Dean’s shoulder when he reached the right page. “That it?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s tension eased slowly. It was just Cas. He’s…he was okay. Maybe angels were just handsy. But mostly, he was warm and present and _there_ , smelling of sandalwood.

Being touched felt kinda nice, once he got used to it.

“Too late to call.” Dean stuck a post-it note in the journal to mark the spot. “I should sleep.”

Castiel reached up, but Dean put up a hand. “I can manage,” he said. “But thanks.”

“As you wish,” Castiel said.

Dean cocked his head at Cas. _That’s twice now._ “You ever see The Princess Bride?”

“I don’t usually have time to watch movies.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “See you in the morning?”

*

Castiel was still seated on the side of Dean’s bed when he woke up.

“Angels don’t sleep?” he asked.

“We don’t sleep, we don’t dream,” Castiel said.

Dean looked over at Sam, who hadn’t seemed to move since he’d been whammied. “So you just…sat there quietly.”

“I checked Sam. He’s going to need to eat a big breakfast. He should be waking up soon.”

“Did he really move that china cabinet?”

“I’m afraid he did.”

Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You fear.”

“Yes. He’s developing faster than he should.”

“What do you mean by—”

Castiel got up and crouched by Sam’s bed. He laid his hand against Sam’s forehead like a mother checking for a fever. Dean remembered Mom touching him like that. He didn’t know why it made him feel angry.

“So what’s the prognosis?”

“He’ll recover. He’s been dosed. Sometime recently.”

“Dosed with what?”

Uncertainty slid across Castiel’s face.“Dean, I don’t think I should tell you. It might change how you look at your brother.”

“What do you mean? He’s my brother! Does he—no, you said he’d been dosed, not he dosed himself. He doesn’t know.”

Castiel looked at him. “He won’t come to any further harm now. It happened before you got to him. Now that you’re with him, and properly warding where you sleep, it shouldn’t happen again.”

Pieces of information fell together, rotated, fit into an answer.

“A demon did it,” Dean guessed. “The one who possessed his friend, the one who killed Jess. He slipped Sam some kind of demonic steroid.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “I should never underestimate your intuition, Dean. That is what I believe happened.”

“But that’s not what happened on your true path.”

“It’s not,” Castiel said. “Sam should not be escalating yet.”

“Will it hurt him?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “It’s hurting him. But it’s a path I can’t stop. And the way it’s hurting him is manageable.”

He got to his feet and patted Dean’s shoulder. “If you want to shower first, you’d better hurry.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and eeled away to get clothes.

*

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Dean said.

Sam grumbled something that sounded like “fuck off” before he shut himself into the bathroom. Dean vacuumed up all the salt and had everything packed into the car before Sam got out.

“I’m starving,” he complained.

“Let’s hope the diner’s pancakes are as good as their burgers,” Dean said.

“I’ll check the road ahead,” Castiel said, and vanished.

Sam looked at the now empty space where Castiel had been standing. “When did he come by?”

“Last night. He whammied you so you could sleep the worst of it off,” Dean said. “You don’t remember?”

“Are you telling me Cas was here all night?”

Dean shrugged into his fleece jacket. “He was.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I did.”

Sam looked around the room, too small to even hold an easy chair. “Where did he sleep?”

“Angels don’t sleep.”

“So what did he do, watch us sleep? That’s a little creepy.”

“Didn’t little kids pray for angels to watch over them as they slept?” Dean asked, irritated. “So we’ve got one that delivers.”

“Okay, geez, calm down.”

They checked out of the motel and checked into a booth, and the waitress was right there with coffee. She was either a well preserved thirtysomething with an eyeliner habit or there were paths to dissolution that plagued even the one horse town home to Hay’s American Diner.

She gave Sam one of those smiles women usually gave Dean when they thought he needed someone to take care of him, and asked if Sam’d like juice or milk with the coffee she was already pouring.

“Actually, if I could have a glass of water and a small orange juice, that’d be great.”

“Sure thing, sweetie. And what can I get for your brother?”

Dean smiled. “Same as Sam would be perfect.”

They looked over the menus. “Eat up, Sam. Cas said that you would be really hungry.”

Sam ordered a four egg omelet full of spinach and Dean scowled. “That is entirely too much green to be eating before noon.”

“It’s good,” Sam said. “Spinach is nice and fresh.”

Dean stacked a bite of pancake, fried egg with a runny yolk, and a bit of sausage and stabbed it with his fork. He worked through his short stack and eggs exactly this way, and Sam shook his head.

“What?”

“You’ve had that for breakfast every chance you get since we were kids.”

“So what? It’s good!”

“I just think it’s funny.”

“Your face is funny.”

“There’s the maturity typical of an older brother,” Sam teased.

Dean conceded the point with a shrug and a smile. “But seriously, that breakfast gonna be enough?”

“Dean. It’s fine. I just woke up hungry.”

Dean scooped up fried shredded potatoes with a for and transferred them to Sam’s plate. “Eat some of my hash browns.”

“Worrywart,” Sam said, but he cleaned his plate.

“You want anything else?”

“I’m good,” Sam said. “I got it.”

*

They were sixty miles westward when Castiel zapped into the Impala.

“We’re too late,” he said. “I don’t understand. Daniel Elkins wasn’t supposed to die for almost another year.”

“So what do we do?” Sam said.

“We get there quickly and hope we can investigate,” Castiel said. “Daniel Elkins’ home is remote. We stand a good chance of getting there before anyone thinks to check on him.”

“Is he… is his body still there?”

“It is,” Castiel said. “Please hurry.”

*

They made decent time but it was still coming up on noon when they made it to Daniel Elkins’ house.

The inside was trashed, seemingly for the joy of destruction. Daniel Elkins was an old man who deserved better than to be slashed and bit and cut to ribbons, left in a discarded heap.

Dean fought nausea and looked. _Pretend it’s TV_. Oh, but the smell—

Sam shook his head and backed out of the room.

Okay, up to him, then. “You okay, Sammy?”

“How can you look at that?”

“I watch CSI.” Dean said. “It’s bad, though. And…”

Dean looked at the floor around the body, then the whole floor, and the walls. “I think the body was moved.”

“Tell me why you would think that, Sherlock,” Sam said, and Dean could hear him sorting through the strewn papers. “Hunter’s journal!”

“Okay, hunch confirmed,” Dean said. “Let me look around and see if I can figure out where he was really killed.”

“Look for a gun,” Castiel said. “Look for an old fashioned revolver with a very long barrel and engraved bullets.”

“What is it?”

Castiel sorted through papers scattered over the desk. “It’s a gun that’s supposed to be able to kill anything.”

“Like demons anything?” Sam said, reappearing in the splintered doorway.

“Exactly.”

“Looks like you get to kill the devil, Dean,” Sam said. “You’re a better shot than me.”

Dean hardly noticed the compliment. “Cas, did you see anywhere there was a lot of blood, on the floor or the walls? There’s not enough blood here.” Dean walked through the torn down books and looked for a blood trail, but other than the blood soaked into the padded chair next to the lamp, there was hardly any—

Oh. “Shit.”

“What?”

“It could be vampires.”

“Vampires,” Sam said. “Vampires, who aren’t hurt by sunlight, wooden stakes, garlic, repelled by crosses, or anything that isn’t decapitation, vampires.”

“It’s what fits the evidence,” Dean said.

“Vampires aren’t solitary, Dean. They hunt in packs. We need backup.”

“Cas?”

“I should not,” Castiel said. “I am here to assist you, but I’ve been keeping a low profile. I’ve cut myself off from the voice of the Host, so other angels won’t notice that I’m in two places at once, but angelic activity leaves a sign, like demonic activity does.”

“Wait, you’re not here on behalf of Head Office?” Dean said.

“No,” Castiel said tightly. “I’m in rebellion.”

“What, like Lucifer?” Dean asked.

“Lucifer was cast down,” Castiel said. “I’m … sneaking around.”

“But God could get mad at you?”

“No one has seen our Father or spoken to Him in… a very long time,” Castiel said.

“Elvis left the building, huh? Fathers,” Sam said, scornfully. “Better off without them.”

Dean kept his mouth shut.

*

They spent the night at the Mountainside Lodge. Sam read Daniel Elkin’s journal while Dean searched for anything John had written about the Colt.

“Elkins knew John wanted the Colt,” Sam said.

“Did he happen to say what for?” Dean asked.

“Nope. Just that that sonofabitch would pry it from his cold dead hand.”

“Great,” Dean said, and turned out the light.

Dean didn’t sleep well, and the next morning saw them canvassing houses. Sam knocked on the third door of the day, and smiled at the teenager who answered. She had fat cushiony headphones around her neck, and she wore a _Thank you but we don’t want any_ expression that she dropped as soon as she saw Sam in favor of curiosity and interest. Dean stood back, leaned against the porch post.

“Hi,” he said. “I want to ask you a question.”

She took another look at Sam, and at the big black car behind him, and then looked at Sam again. “Ask away.”

“We’re looking for our little brother,” Sam said. “He’s about fifteen. He went missing a few months ago, and I’m looking for him. I think he joined a band.”

“Like a rock band?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But you know, it’s hard to make it. I’m wondering if you’ve seen any shady looking vans or if a group of rowdies have taken over an abandoned building to squat in.”

“You want him to come home?” The kid asked.

“To _our_ dad? Hell no,” Sam said. “I just want to make sure he knows he can call us. He’s pretty good at drumming, he could make it.”

She thought, leaning against the edge of the door.  “I got no idea where they are, but there was a group of people like that, you know, the clothes give them away. They were laughing and drinking in the street.”

“Do you remember how many?”

“About seven,” the girl said. “And there was a young guy with them. Shaggy hair, skinny, guyliner.”

“That sounds right,” Sam looked animated, excited. “Are there any abandoned places, you know out of town anywhere?”

“Look west of town,” the kid said. “There’s an old ranch. We used to party there but then some bums moved in or something. Look for barbed wire fence, bad condition, and a road lined with trees - all the leaves are gone, not like pine trees.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “Thank you so much.”

“I hope you find him.”

Dean’s brother was a very good liar.

*

They were west of Manning in a few minutes, but it took another 15 to find the place. The trees were aspens and they stood in straight lines on either side of a long laneway. Dean backed the Impala into the lane and parked when they were out of sight of the road, and they walked out into the field with machetes.

The steep gable-roofed house in the distance had boards on the windows peeking through a screen of spruce trees. It had been abandoned at least a year, to Dean’s eye, and would need a lot of work to bring it back.

A van parked in front of the house made Sam pause. “The kid said seven.”

“That might mean seven, but it might mean more,” Dean said. “What do we do? I wouldn’t want to fight seven people, let alone seven monsters.”

“They sleep in the day,” Sam said. “Maybe we can check it out.”

“Maybe we should call Bobby, see what he says.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. “You got signal?”

“No,” Dean said. “Fuck this. Let’s go back to Manning and call in the cavalry.”

But when they got back to the car, it wasn’t alone.

The guy who waited by the car looked like a wanna be biker. Leather pants, a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off over a leather jacket, chains, boots. He stood a good six feet away from the Impala and smirked.

“Machetes? How rude,” he said. “You new to hunting?”

“Look, everyone can go their separate ways,” Dean said. “We’re just looking for a gun the guy who got sliced up Old Mountain Road used to have. It’s an antique revolver, had engraved bullets with it.”

“Oh,” the vampire said. “I think I know the one you mean. It’s up at the house. Let’s go fetch it.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to disturb your buddies,” Dean said.

“Oh, I insist,” the vampire said, and Dean heard feet moving through dry grass.

“Worst hunters I’ve ever seen,” the vampire said, as Sam and Dean were captured by Twilight rejects. “But pretty, so pretty. Maybe we’ll keep you.”

*****

Hunting was probably this moment right here - knowing that you fucked up and you were going to die for it. Sam looked like he was ready to fight, but he gave up when Dean shook his head and gave him a look. They couldn’t fight their way out of this. Time for plan B.

At least, what Dean hoped it was plan B.

“How’d you find us?”

The vampire who asked was a woman with long dark hair, dressed in a short denim skirt, cowboy boots, a t-shirt with tattooed roses on it, and a plaid cowboy shirt.

“You were noticed in town.” Dean squirmed against his handcuffs. They were too tight. “We asked the right questions.”

She sighed and blew her hair up off her face. “It was getting time to move on, anyway.”

She sat on the arm of an abandoned couch and Dean fought revulsion. The inside of the house was filthy. Dean didn’t even want the bottom of his boots touching the carpet. He shrugged it off and tried to talk his way out.

“There are hunters after you,” Dean said.

“We know.” The wannabe biker vampire looked bored. “We took one out a bit back. That car of yours looked familiar. Felt familiar, when I tried to touch it. We moved to here. Guess it wasn’t far enough.”

“Let’s go back to Texas,” the youngest looking vampire said. He had light blond hair, long and stringy.

“Screw Texas. Louisiana,” the biker said.

“Darlings, you’re off topic.” The woman shook one of the machetes in Sam and Dean’s direction. “We got made by these two clowns. Probably related to the hunter we found in Boulder—”

“Our father,” Sam said.

“Ooh, a revenge plot!” The biker said.

“You killed my father. Prepare to die,” the blond kid mocked. “He was already dead when we got there, ducklings. Werewolf maybe. I know, you’re sadmad.”

“Not really,” Sam said. “He was a dick.”

“But you’re on his trail,” the woman pointed out. She was the leader, Dean was pretty sure.

“He was after the gun,” Dean said.

“Oh. This gun?”

The woman produced a long barreled antique Colt revolver. Even in the dimness of the room Dean could see that it was a master gunsmith’s work, beautiful with engraving.

“The gun and the bullets is really all we want,” Dean said. “If you give it to us, the hunters looking for you won’t have as much incentive.”

“So it’s valuable.”

“Yeah. And we’re the only ones who are totally willing to not kill to get it.” Bullshit probably wouldn’t work, but what did Dean have left?

“So there are loads of hunters looking for us. And you two nimrods found us first?” The woman put her hands on her hips and laughed. “Boy, you need to work on your patter. You’ve got potential. Though with a face like that you probably can use any cheesy line to get a woman on your hook.”

“Usually I just say Castiel, we need help.”

Wingbeats tore the air before Castiel roared, “CLOSE YOUR EYES!”

Dean would have covered them if his hands weren’t tied behind his back. He shut them up tight and screamed at the awful, window shattering noise, twisted around until the sight of the veins in his eyelids no longer threatened to sear into him.

The light was terrible. It felt like fury and judgment, exposing everything in his naked soul. Every failure, every incompetence. He kept his eyes shut tight, bowed his head, and waited for the wrath of the angel whose hand he’d forced to rain down on him.

He couldn’t see anything but green spots when he finally opened his eyes. Bodies lay around them, their eyes burnt out, mouths open on their final screams.

“Cas,” Dean said. “Cas. I’m so sorry, Cas.”

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel said. “I was about to appear anyway. You didn’t ask for anything I wasn’t prepared to give.”

“Cas,” Sam said, off to his right. He was out of breath, shaky. He sounded the way Dean felt.

“Sam.”

“You’re awesome.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said gravely.

“Are you going to get us out of those handcuffs?” Dean asked. He’d called, and Castiel came.

“No,” Castiel said. “That vampire was right. You two are terrible hunters. You’ll have to escape them yourselves.”

“Cas, come on, we can do the Wax On, Wax Off stuff later.” Dean cajoled. “This place is giving me a severe case of germophobia.”

Castiel picked up the gun and searched the woman’s pockets. He dropped bullets into the pocket of his trenchcoat. “Do it in the car, then. We’re getting out of here.”

The world twisted and they landed in a space that smelled of old leather and the herbs in the fresh charm bags Dean had tucked inside each car door. He lifted a knee, but didn’t make contact with the steering wheel.

Sam writhed beside him as the engine started up.

Castiel’s deep, amused voice filled the interior of the Impala. “Driver picks the music, I believe.”

Dean recognized the drumbeat and popping bass and started laughing at the opening of TLC’s _Waterfalls._

“Well at least it wasn’t _No Scrubs_.”

“Let me tell you about Rhythm and Blues, Dean,” Castiel said, and pulled the car out onto the highway. “I also enjoy Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu.”

Dean shut his cake hole and listened while he tried to pick his handcuffs.

“Are we going back to Sioux Falls?” Sam asked.

“We should,” Castiel said. “You both need so much more training I don’t really know how we’re going to fit enough hours in the day. But John Winchester died here, and since we’re here, we should investigate.”

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” Dean said. “This job is hypervigilance on a whole new level.”

“I expect you’ll do better once we get back to Sioux Falls for some downtime,” Castiel said. “If I say we’re going to Boulder, does that trigger a memory?”

“That’s where those vampires found John,” Dean said. “But you know that.”

“Boulder.” Sam brought his hands out from behind his back. “I can look in the journal.”

“Cas, John’s keys. The storage unit keys. Is there one for Boulder?”

“I can’t tell while I’m driving,” Castiel said.

“I’m sure there’s one for Boulder.” Dean practiced picking the handcuff lock again. It made his fingers cramp, but he was getting faster. He thought.

“Thirty seconds,” Sam said. Dean smirked. He was getting faster. He took the stopwatch and locked Sam up.

“This is a great album,” Sam said.

“ _Mama’s Gun_?” Castiel asked. “Yes. I really love it. It makes me want to dance.”

“Angels dance?”

“This angel dances,” Castiel said. “Badly. But with enthusiasm.”

“Where do you go to dance, to a club?”

“I particularly enjoy dancing on the beach near a little place called Tofino on Vancouver Island.”

“I gotta see this,” Dean said.

“Dancing is a participatory activity,” Castiel said. “If I’m dancing, so are you.”

“I’d do it,” Sam said with a little wave.

“Thirty four seconds,” Dean said. “Come on, get your head back in the game.”

“I was distracted.”

“Get un-distracted,” Dean said. “Come on, lock me up again.” He put his hands behind his back and said, “What about zip ties?”

“You can shim them,” Castiel said. “You can practice that when we go back to Sioux Falls.”

“Okay.” Dean worked on picking the lock again.

*****

They stopped for dinner at a Biggerson’s, where Castiel just had coffee, Sam a chicken and apple spinach salad, and Dean his usual bacon cheeseburger.

“And pie,” Castiel said. “We have to have pie.”

“You like pie, Castiel?”

“ _You_ like pie, Dean.”

“I do,” Dean said, surprised.

“So we’ll have pie,” Sam said, and got up to consult the Yellow Pages for Castle Storage locations.

“So tell me what’s up, are the boys upstairs coming for you?”

“They can’t trace me right now,” Castiel said. “I’m warded until sundown.”

Dean looked at the sky. “We don’t have a lot of time, then.”

“Once we get to the storage unit, I will have to leave you,” Castiel said. “I will come if you pray for me, but if you can, leave it for a while.”

Dean nodded. “Okay.”

“But if you’re in danger, pray for me. I will come.”

*****

Castiel still wanted to drive, so they listened to _The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill_ on the way through Denver’s traffic, headed northwest to Boulder. Sam and Dean drew sigils in spiral bound sketchbooks with pencils.

“Seems off,” Dean said. “John avoided big cities.”

“And small cities,” Sam said.

“Then it would be a decent place to hide something,” Castiel said. “Because it would seem out of character. How are those sigils coming?”

“I’m working on the third one.” Dean held it up. He’d written _Dean’s Magical Coloring Book_ across the top of the page, and below were shaky drawings of the same mark, bound in a circle. “You really have to do this one in blood?”

“Yes. And I hope you won’t need it but you need to know it.”

“What does it do?”

“It banishes angels.”

Dean blinked. “Even you?”

“Yes. So be careful to use it when I’m not in line of sight of it.”

“I’m working on the Devil’s trap,” Sam said. “Not something you just scribble down, is it?”

“Do we have to know all of these? And the order you draw the sigil in matters?” Dean asked.

“Yes. Finish this sentence,” Castiel said. “ _adesto propitius invocationibus nostris…_ ”

“ _et elemento huic, multimodis purificationibus præparato_ ,” Sam said. “Blessing of holy water.”

“Good. Dean, what’s next?”

“ _virtutem tuæ benedictionis infunde; ut creatura tua, mysteriis tuis serviens,_ ” Dean said.

“Excellent.” Castiel said. “Looks like we’re here.”

Castiel parked in the far end of the lot, and consulted the collection of keys. he pinched one up and held the keys out to Dean. “You’re looking for 72.”

Castiel vanished.

“This way,” Sam pointed at a sign.

The inside of unit 72 was set up like a military tent. There was a cot and a sleeping bag, folding table, battery powered lamps. It was spartan, but would probably do for overnight stays.

Everything important was on the walls.

“Wow.”

“I like it,” Sam said. “It’s very Beautiful Mind.”

“Do you see this?” Dean swept his hand to mean the whole display. “It’s all…”

“Go to it, Sherlock.”

“Come on,” Dean said. “Look at it. The maps, the pictures, the paper clippings, official records…this is a mind map. I do these with renovations all the time.”

“He was tracking fires,” Sam said, peering at another wall. “Look. All these fires are in houses. With infants. One parent dying, usually the mother, infants were… six months old. Exactly.”

“Take pictures.” Dean took out his phone and started photographing his bulletin board. “I want to have a record of how John put it together before we take it down.”

Sam’s camera phone flashed as he took pictures of his bulletin board. “What’s going on here, Dean? All these house fires, like the one we lived through?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “It’s got something to do with demons.”

“What, no. I’m not…”

“What?”

Sam didn’t answer right away.

Dean turned around, and Sam was hugging himself like he was cold.

“What if this is some kind of Damien thing?” Sam asked.

Dread settled in Dean’s stomach. “What, you think you’re the Antichrist?”

“Not _the_ antichrist, _an_ antichrist,” Sam said. “Like the rest of these kids. Look, there’s got to be more than one nursery fire in 1983. I can’t be the only one. We’ve got to find out what happened to them.”

They took the papers and photographs down and stored them in the trunk of the Impala.

“Call Bobby,” Sam said, getting into the driver’s seat.

Bobby answered the phone on the first ring. “Where the hell have you two been?” Bobby demanded.

“We took a left turn at the interchange and went to Colorado,” Dean explained. He plugged his other ear against Sam’s blasting Nine Inch Nails, ignoring the speedometer climbing up to 80, until he remembered that they were driving without licenses.

“One sec, Bobby,” Dean said. “Sam, slow down.”

“I can handle it.”

“How are you gonna handle a cop asking you to open the trunk?”

Sam made his bitchy face and eased off the pedal. He even turned the music down.

“Cas rushed over to Lawrence to tell us to talk to Daniel Elkins,” Dean said.

Bobby made a surprised noise. “Know him. Stays local. Vampire hunter.”

“He’s dead.”

“Balls.”

“Vampires got him, and the weapon Castiel had sent us after. An antique Colt revolver—”

“Elkins had it? John was looking for that gun.”

“Well, now we have it.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Cas did it. Bobby, we fucked up,” Dean said. “We’re coming back and we’re staying there for a bit. We’re babies out here.”


	6. Because the Moment Simply Is

“Idjits,” Bobby said, once Sam and Dean got back to Singer Auto and finished explaining about their ignominious capture at the hands of a vampire pack. “You could have been killed. _Would_ have been killed, if you didn’t have an attack angel. What the hell do you think you were doing?”

“It just kind of snowballed,” Dean said.

“When Castiel came to tell us to go to Colorado, Daniel Elkins was still alive.” Sam scuffed at the gravel with his feet. “And then we followed the leads.”

“Straight into a vampire nest,” Bobby said.

“Cas said he wasn’t supposed to die for another year,” Dean said.

Bobby scowled. “But he bought it right when you two were showing up?”

“This is time-travel stuff,” Dean said. “Maybe. I don’t know. Cas might, but he’s in hiding.”

“And you can’t rely on him to get you out of trouble. You boys need to put your noses to the grindstone and learn. I’ve got an idea. You’re going to man the call center.”

The call center was a line of phones labeled with the persona name and agency, plus one more that Sam called the lore line. Bobby left them alone with the library and the job of bullshitting law enforcement for the sake of catching a witch or figuring out which monster was plaguing the community a Hunter called from.

After ten days of answering calls Dean didn’t know how Bobby handled the work of the phone calls and his auto business. That damn phone about rung off the hook on a full moon, and hunters seemed to share a lot in common with his neighbors back home: they liked to chat.

“John Winchester’s boys? Sure, he was a good hunter. Thought he’d kept you boys out of the life.”

A hunter named Ken McLeod had Dean on the phone with a question about demonic activity in Missouri, but he stayed on the line to settle his curiosity about who Bobby had in training to be hunters. “I remember running into him when I was looking for a clutch of ghouls in Kentucky. Grouchy bastard, but he knew things about tactics. Real good hunter.”

Ken McLeod only got off the line when Dean told him there was a call waiting. There wasn’t, and Dean sighed in relief, rubbing his ear.

“So many hunters work alone,” Sam said. “That’s bound to be dangerous. Lonely.” He’d walked back in with the cordless with the FBI Assistant Director of the month’s name taped onto the back.

“It’s time to trade. You take the lore line.”

“With pleasure,” Sam said. “I’d rather research.”

But the hour was over too fast, and Dean was back on the lore line, looking up the differences between a death omen and a vengeful spirit for a woman settling an argument at a bar, of all things.

“You boys should come down to the Roadhouse, meet some people,” Ellen Harvelle said. “You spend enough time on Bobby’s phone, you’ll half-meet everyone anyway.”

“Thank you Ma’am, we probably will,” Dean said.

“Call me Ellen, kid. Everyone does.”

“Thank you, Ellen. We probably will. We need a break from our own research.”

“What are you researching?”

“Demons,” Dean said. “And house fires, under very specific circumstances.”

“Tell you what, kid,” Ellen said. “Why don’t you bring everything you have so far when you stop in for that beer. It sounds like you need to talk to Ash. If there’s a connection, he’ll find it.”

Dean waited for Sam to get off his phone before saying, “Apparently there’s a hunter bar in Nebraska.”

“Seriously? How many hunters are there?” Sam asked.

“Don’t know,” Dean said. “But anyway, there’s someone at this place called the Roadhouse who might be able to help us with all the research we found in that storage room.”

“That’s a long drive,” Sam said. “You think it’s worth it?”

“It can’t hurt,” Dean said. “We’ve got enough money for gas. And I’d like a day off the phones.”

*

Dean stood on the sugary white sand of the most beautiful beach he’d ever seen. He had sandals on his feet and wore bright yellow board shorts and an unbuttoned shirt draped over his shoulders. Dappled shadows protected his eyes, and he could just see the brim of a straw hat.

“This is a dream,” Dean said. “I’m full-on tourist.”

“It is,” Castiel agreed. He wore his usual attire: trenchcoat, tie, navy suit, white shirt, slip on boots. “This the Seychelles Islands. Well. One of them. It’s an archipelago.”

The surf was a soft hiss as gentle waves trickled along the shore. “Cas, am I dreaming about you?”

“Technically, yes. Angels can speak to people in dreams.”

Dean looked at the beautiful turquoise water. He wondered if he could swim in it. “Is this where you’re hiding right now?”

“It is. I like islands, seashores. Places where land and water meet.”

“All right. Dream me up some chips and salsa. If we’re here we may as well enjoy it.”

*

“Damn, this is good!” Dean exclaimed for the second time. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“I require neither food nor drink, Dean. You go ahead.”

“It’s not about _requiring_ , man. It’s about _enjoying!”_ Dean stretched out in his sling chair, bare feet dug in the sand. The salsa was perfect. Deft hands had chopped the tomatoes, jalapeno peppers, sweet onion, mango, and cilantro. Fresh lime juice burst in his mouth, blending with a splash of tequila. If he ran out of chips he’d dream up a spoon just to finish the rest.

“You seem to enjoy it,” Castiel said.

“You should too,” Dean said. “Try some.”

Castiel leaned over and plucked up a tortilla chip, and used the corner to scoop up some salsa. His nostrils flared when he opened his mouth. He bit the corner off and chewed, looking thoughtful.

“Well?”

Castiel held up one finger until he’d swallowed.

“It’s an interesting composition, but overwhelming. All the molecules—discerning everything is difficult. Why combine foods like this?”

“That’s the fun part, Cas.”

“I think eating isn’t an activity I’m equipped to enjoy.” Castiel set the rest of his uneaten chip down on the table between them, and twisted his seat around to face Dean. “I brought you here to explain something, Dean.”

“Should I be sitting down?”

“You are sitting down.”

“Joke, Cas. Shoot.”

Castiel slumped his shoulders and looked down at the sand under his shoes. “I believe that I was responsible for Daniel Elkins’ death.”

“How could you be?”

“I attempted to get a head start on finding the revolver known as the Colt, so you could keep it safe until it’s time for you to use it.”

Dean dropped a bit of salsa on his middle and scooped it up with his fingers. _Two second rule._ He glanced over at Cas, who had watched the whole thing intently.

He glanced away, looked back, and Castiel was still watching. _Maybe that’s just Cas. Staring and standing too close._

Dean stayed on topic. “So you think that Daniel Elkins died because on the true path, we didn’t find the Colt for another year.” Dean ate another chip.

“Yes.”

“So what’s that mean for your plan?”

“It means I’m going to be here for…a couple of years, Dean.”

A couple of years. Dean would never get his normal life back. He’d hoped. He shouldn’t have hoped. John Winchester found another way to fuck up his life, this time totally. Dean let his head fall back against the lounge chair.

Castiel spoke into the silence. “I don’t know if I can use my full power the way I did against those vampires.”

“Because then you have to hide out in your island getaway,” Dean said.

“Because my grace isn’t replenishing as quickly as I expected,” Castiel said. “I’m not sure why.”

A salsa-laden tortilla chip halted as Dean peered at Castiel. “Does this dream-shifting thing take a lot of juice?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Because I could get used to this.” Dean crunched down on the chip. “Cas.”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You know our fuck up in Colorado? What would the other me and Sam have done?”

“On the true path you’re both trained, talented hunters.” Castiel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He should have been roasting in his suit and trenchcoat, but he looked comfortable.

“They would have known what to do,” Dean said. “They wouldn’t have been so stupid.”

“It isn’t fair to compare like that. The foundation of your abilities are still the same.”

Dean had another chip and wished for water. “So I’m the shooter and Sam’s the hand to hand guy.”

“You’re both adept in either method of combat.” Castiel poured a glass of water from a pitcher that sweated with condensation. He handed it to Dean and the water was sweet and so cold. “You’re both trained to observe and collect evidence, and to maneuver socially in order to gain information.”

He meant deceive people. “And you are our friend.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “And you are mine. Both of you.”

“Which one of us do you like better?” Dean grinned to show that he was joking.

“You and I share a more profound bond,” Castiel said. “I do like Sam. But it’s not the same.”

A more profound bond? What did _that_ mean? “So, what? We go for walks on the beach, stargaze together, stare into each other’s eyes?”

“This is the first time we’ve ever been on a beach,” Castiel said. “But if you would like to walk, we can walk.”

_Did that mean they’d done the other things?_ “Cas, are you and I—in the true path, are we…together? I mean—”

“Sexually and or romantically involved,” Castiel said. “No.”

Oh. Dean had no better idea of what their rela— _friendship_ was like than before he started asking questions. “Well Cas, there’s a hell of a good beach in this dream. Let’s walk.”

*

Dean remembered the dream when he woke up to cold droplets of water on his face. He lifted his head and glared sleepily at Sam, who shook his head and got water everywhere.

“Gonna hold you down and cut it off,” Dean grumbled.

“You can try,” Sam said, and Dean remembered how he’d gone after Castiel with his bare hands. “Did you sleep well?”

“Great,” Dean said. “You ready for a road trip?”

“You make breakfast, I’ll pack the car.”

Dean made pan-fried potatoes and scrambled eggs, and Bobby offered to wash the dishes so they could get out the door to make the drive to Nebraska. “Ash is on a whole different level upstairs,” he said. “Kid’s a genius.”

Bobby Singer was a cranky old bastard in a John Deere cap, plaid shirt, and hunting vest who was fluent in Greek and Japanese. He kept a library in his house and never quite forgot anything he’d ever read. Dean wondered what it took to impress him.

Five and a half hours on the road brought them to Harvelle’s Roadhouse. It was made of weather-beaten wood and a six-foot wide satellite dish mounted on the roof. The false front held a painted sign that hadn’t been touched up in decades.

Dean liked his bars a little down-at-the-heels, and this place had a comfortable shabbiness he’d call homey - it was the kind of place where the regulars could tell you the story of every burn scar and carved epithet in the solid wood tables and bar surface, and as he’d hoped, there was a pool table.

They took another step inside and everyone in the place swivelled their heads to stare in their direction. Conversations stopped. Chairs scraped under the force of their occupants pushing them back.

Dean glanced at Sam, who studied the young blonde woman behind the bar. In other circumstances, Dean would only be paying attention to her. He looked back at the crowd of hunters, all staring in their direction, and hoped they didn't have to fight their way out.

Sam cleared his throat and said, “Hi. I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean. We’re looking for Ellen Harvelle.”

“You John Winchester’s boys, working the phone up at Bobby Singer’s?” A grizzled man in a buffalo plaid jacket demanded.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean broke in before Sam could answer. “You called to ask after a supplier of Five Holy Waters in Brae Glen, Illinois.”

“Had to drive into Chicago after all,” the man said. “Put an extra day on my trip. I missed the Vikings game.”

“Aw, man. That sucks,” Dean said.

“Well, a Hunter’s vacation time is flexible,” the man said.

“Sad but true.” Dean agreed. He fought valiantly to remember the man’s name.

“David,” the hunter said. Everyone had relaxed, picked up beers, leaned back in their seats. A couple of them waited for a turn to speak. Dean prayed that one of them wasn’t Ken or they’d die of thirst on the doorstep.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?”

The woman who addressed them had red hair to her shoulders and wore the jeans and open plaid shirt that seemed to be the uniform of the Midwest. “Come in and sit down. You found the place okay?”

“Sure did,” Sam answered. “It’s nice to meet you.”

And then the blonde girl walked back into sight.

She was young. She might have been twenty - optimistically. Dean chided himself because there was a limit, and he couldn’t stop looking.

“I wish it were under happier circumstances,” Ellen said. “John was a really good hunter. What got him?” Ellen asked.

“Vampire pack claimed it was werewolves,” Dean said. “Probably true.”

Dean flicked his look from Ellen back to the younger woman. Young woman. Girl.

Blonde hair - not natural by the roots, but Dean didn’t give a shit about that - dark brown eyes, pretty in her low slung jeans, tight Jack Daniels t-shirt, and enough gap between the hem and waistband to show off the cut between her abs and obliques. Pretty. So pretty. Too young.

Dean forced himself to stop.

The blonde girl smirked at him, and he gave her a rueful smile.

“These the Winchesters, then?” The blonde girl asked.

“Yes. Sam there, Dean there.” Ellen nodded to each. “This is my daughter, Jo.”

“Nice to meet you, Jo.” Dean nodded, his smile friendly, but neutral.

“You boys sit down and have a beer,” Ellen said. “Ash won’t be up for another hour.”

An hour and ten minutes later, Dean had finished a damn fine burger, nursed half a bottle of Miller, and couldn’t stop jiggling his left knee as he waited. Sam had brought a copy of _A Feast of Crows_ so he had something to do. Dean watched a game of 8-ball and wondered if he should get up and grab his cue from the Impala when a loud whoop broke the hum of conversation and the faint music from a radio behind the bar.

From the disheveled state of his hair and the pillow creases on his face, Dean figured that the man who’d walked out of the back hallway had to be Ash. He had the longest mullet Dean had seen in five states, and the sleeves on his grungy looking plaid shirt had been ripped off. Jo handed him a PBR and Ash took a long drink from it, enjoying an open-mouthed belch with his jaw skewed to the side.

“Mornin’.”

“This is Ash. He’s a genius,” Jo said.

Dean wondered what it took to impress Jo. “Ellen said you might be able to help us with some research.”

Ash nodded and drank at the same time. “Let’s have it.”

“This is about a year’s worth of John’s work,” Dean said. “I’ve got a few ideas about it, but what do you make of it?”

He slid the folder over, and Ash opened it up. He barely glanced at each sheet, and only got a few pages in before he said, “Nobody can track a demon like this.”

He’d picked that up fast. “Seems that John did.”

“On paper,” Ash muttered. “Take forever. There are signs, omens. Track them, you can track this demon.”

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean shushed him with a gesture.

Ash scanned more pages. “Crop failures, electrical storms, cattle mutilations…This’ll take time.”

“How long?” Sam asked.

Ash sucked down the last drops of his Pabst. “Fifty-one hours.”

“Okay,” Dean said. He looked at Sam, who nodded. Little over two days? They could spare that much time.

Ash cocked his fingers at them and fired. “Don’t be late.”

He scooped up the folder and sauntered away.

“So you boys gonna stay for the duration?” Ellen asked. “We’ve got more beds in back.”

“We should go back,” Sam said. “We have a lot of training to do.”

*

Dean was ready to just sit on the couch and watch whatever football Bobby’s television offered, but Sam came in talking about how knowing the lore was one thing, but they needed to know how to fight their way out of trouble. They’d spent hours on the phone with hunters explaining that you had to kill a monster with fire, or stab it with a wooden stake. They were training not just to know the difference between a wendigo and a werewolf, but also how they died, usually bloody and hard.

“No fighting in the house,” Bobby said. “But you can use the back warehouse.”

There was enough bare floor space in that warehouse to serve as a sparring circle, but it was chilly. Neither of them wanted to fall on a space heater, so they layered up and coped with South Dakota in November.

Sam’s strikes at half speed still hurt, so he wore padded gloves and Dean wore armor, a mouthguard, shin guards, and a jock. None of that helped his dignity. It especially didn’t help when Sam patiently corrected the details of his hand to hand fighting, starting him from the very beginnings of self defense.

“My little brother can kick my ass,” Dean complained. “Who dreamed this up?”

Sam corrected his finger positioning for heel of the hand strikes. “After you turned eighteen and had to move out of the house, I acted out. A lot.”

“You seemed okay when I saw you,” Dean said, but he remembered Sam had talked a lot about coming to live with him instead of staying with Jim and Maria, the foster parents who finally offered to take the two of them together when they refused to be separated.

“I wasn’t okay. I just put on a good face when you came to see me, and when I was at your place on the weekends.”

Dean went through the break-hold move Sam had shown him for someone grabbing him from behind. “So they enrolled you in martial arts so you’d…channel the anger?”

“Yeah. The wrestling team worked for you.”

It had. Dean squeezed some cold water into his mouth, and stuck the mouthguard back in. He hopped around like it was a boxing match, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Seriously.”

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

Sam scoffed and put him on his ass in two moves.

“Stick with the stance,” Sam lectured. “You get power from your stance.”

“Geez,” Dean muttered, but settled down and got back to work.

They were both sweating and stripped down to sweatpants and t-shirts when Sam called a halt.

“It’s too bad we didn’t have time to find you a wing chun instructor. I think you’d be really good,” Sam said.

Dean dressed in the layers he’d taken off after they really started working. “Maybe later.”

The thermos was a good idea. Dean drank hot apple cider with lemon and cinnamon, wrapping his fingers around the warm cup. “So shooting tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Sam grimaced. “I haven’t kept up on it at all.”

“I think you’ll enjoy the thing we’re doing. Line of sight, suppressing fire. We’re going to use paintball guns instead of live ammo.”

“This is our lives?” Sam said. “Fuck.”

“I try not to think about it.”

“I can’t stop,” Sam said, and stood next to a space heater. “I should be in school. I should have aced my interview. Jess—”

_Should still be alive._ Dean hunched his shoulders up. “It sucks.”

“It’s the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Sam said. “My whole life is gone. Your whole life is gone. We’re sucked into this bizarre fucking world, a demon killed our mom, and I’m—evil…”

“Sammy.”

“No, Dean.” Sam twisted around and grabbed his warm-up jacket. “If that angel hadn’t come and fucked everything up, we’d have been in this life from childhood. I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

“Either way, we don’t have a choice, Sam.” He didn’t know what to do. He walked closer, and Sam shuffled aside to let him have some of the space heater’s hot spot.

“If things had gone the way they should Jess still would have been dead. I still don’t become a lawyer. And what were you?”

“Cas told me that I stuck to hunting with John,” Dean said. “That I do credit card scams and impersonate cops and break and enter on the regular. Like some _lowlife.”_

“You wouldn’t have fucked up that hunt in Colorado,” Sam said.

“But would it be better?” Dean asked. “Look, we can’t let Colorado spook us out of the job. Cas said we need to be hunters, so let’s be hunters. We need to find a job and work it.”

“You should take a hot shower,” Sam said. “It’s been a while since we worked out.”

Dean let him change the subject, and followed him back to the house.

The shower helped pound out some of Dean’s aches. He wasn’t a stranger to work but Sam’s technique used muscles that carrying heavy wood and tile and holding up a nailgun didn’t really touch. He fell into bed and was asleep before Sam even made it out of the shower.

*

Dean came downstairs to find Sam drinking an enormous green smoothie, already hunched over his laptop.

“Anything interesting, Popeye?”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “I think I may have found a rawhead.”

“Drowned children?”

“Four in the last two years.”

“Why does it have to be kids,” Dean muttered. “We got those tasers?”

Dean heard the splash of water under his boots a half second before the rawhead lunged at him. Triggering the taser was pure instinct. The sensation that ran through him was wave after wave of pressure and heat. He had enough time to think _I’m sorry Sammy_ before he fell into darkness.

Dean came downstairs to a half-demolished kitchen and Sam standing over a waffle iron with batter dripped out over the stove top.

“You know, Sam, that thing they say about needing to destroy before you create? That rule gets trumped in the kitchen by Clean As You Go.”

“You said cooks don’t clean.”

“This isn’t cleaning,” Dean grabbed the dishrag and started wiping up batter, flour, and eggshell bits. “This is excavating.”

Sam cut off a corner of a half-burned waffle and chewed. “I think I found a rawhead,” he said, through a mouthful of food.

“Drowned children?”

“Four in the last two years.”

“Why does it have to be kids,” Dean muttered. “We got those tasers?”

Water soaked Dean’s boots. Dean took his finger off the taser trigger and leapt for the stairs.

He was fast, but the Rawhead was faster.

_I’m sorry, Sammy,_ Dean thought, and then there was no room for anything but screaming.

Dean sat at the kitchen table reading a hunter journal by a woman named Jubilation Turner when Sam came downstairs with his laptop.

“Just cereal today?” Sam asked.

“We’ve got to make a store run,” Dean said. “Are you already up to your eyes in Facebook friends?”

“Research,” Sam said excitedly. “I think I found a rawhead.”

It was impossible to do anything stealthy in hip waders. Dean tried to descend the steps quietly, but gave it up. He tested the handrails, said a quick wish for luck, and used them to get leverage on a leap that landed him in a puddle on the floor with a terrific splash. Sam cursed and thumped down the stairs, shotgun loaded with improvised silica shot ready to cover his route to the kids huddled in the corner.

“Get them up the stairs,” Dean said. “Keep going and don’t stop. This bastard’s going down extra crispy.”

The rawhead burst out of the darkness as their feet hit the stairs, and Dean fired double handed, his grip awkward in the thick rubber gloves.

The smell of ozone and burnt, rotting meat was enough to make him gag and consider Sam’s flirtation with vegetarianism for as long as it took him to get upstairs and outside into fresh air.

Dean blinked. Sam and the children were gone. Outside wasn’t outside, but a vast room like an airplane hangar, empty of everything but Castiel.

“Congratulations, Dean. You finally passed the simulation.”

“What the hell,” Dean said. “Are you in my dream again?”

His dry boots thumped on the floor. The hip waders and rubber gloves were gone. He was in jeans and his favorite Nirvana t-shirt, dressed pretty much the way he did the first day after laundry got done.

“Technically speaking you’re dreaming. I’ve moved your perception and consciousness into a…” Castiel waved his hand to indicate the space, but his expression betrayed his uncertainty about how to explain. “This is a lot like Heaven, actually.”

“This? You mean this--Danger Room thing? _This_ is like Heaven?”

Castiel smiled at him, and shrugged. “Physically. It’s a finite space that responds to the inner being of a soul’s experience on Earth - though in this case, it’s responding to the scenario that I’ve conceptualized for training you and Sam.”

Dean cocked his head. “Sam’s not here.”

Castiel looked apologetic. “I thought I would try it with just you.”

“Well I gotta tell you, Cas,” Dean said, “If I had a holodeck, this isn’t what I’d do with it.”

“What would you do?” Castiel asked.

The landscape shivered. The polished concrete floor became sugary sand, the flickering buzz of dying fluorescent lamps the gentle fuzzy noise of the ocean. The sky was split through by the vast, cloudy band of the Milky Way, and Dean craned his neck all the way back to gape at it.

“This is where I took you in your dreams,” Castiel said. “This is the beach at the Seychelles.”

“It is?” Dean asked. “Wait, _I’m_ doing this?”

“You are.”

Of all the places Dean could have unconsciously chosen, he’d picked the one with no memories other than the ones made by him and Cas. He could have chosen anywhere.

He looked up at the magnificent scatter of lights above and tried to pick out constellations. “Well then, I guess I’d look at the stars,” Dean said. “Or try to see the world.”

“Then let’s make a deal,” Castiel said. “We do the simulations, and then I’ll show you somewhere interesting.”

*

Dean woke up early, and went downstairs to make Sam’s breakfast - sautéed vegetables and herbs in an omelette. Sam had made it for him the first year he went to Stanford and came back to Wisconsin for Christmas. Dean figured it would be even better with some bacon in it, but he made that separately.

Dean sat down with coffee and bacon next to his omelette and said, “So angels can visit in dreams. I talked to Cas. He’s got an idea to help with training.”

“In our sleep?” Sam made a face. “When do we rest?”

“He tried it on me last night, I feel okay,” Dean said, and told Sam about the rawhead.

“So hand to hand one day, firearms the next, and Holodeck dreams every night?” Sam asked. “That’s a hell of a schedule.”

“Plus the phones, plus studying,” Dean said. “We need a cheat day where we don’t have to do anything.”

“And hope that we can pass stuff off to other hunters while we do all this training.”

“Speaking of,” Dean said. “Hurry up and let’s go.”

Sam finished eating, and got dressed in the set of blue coveralls and goggles Dean had put out for him. He followed Dean through the maze of stacked cars until they got to the beginning of the course.

“Okay, I set this up really quick but here’s the deal. There’s a chance that we’ll fight something that needs line of sight to do its thing, so this exercise is about getting through the course without either me or Bobby shooting you,” Dean said.

“Fun.”

“There’s targets set up through the course. Shoot them. You know you’ll be at the end when you break the red ribbon.”

“So we’re playing paintball,” Sam said.

“Yes. Two against one, and you have to hit the targets along the way. Shot color’ll tell you who killed you. Bobby’s paint is blue. Mine’s pink. Yours is green. If you hit either of us, we’re out.”

Dean slapped Sam’s shoulder. “Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Give me a fifty count before you start. LOUD!” Dean called over his shoulder, and then disappeared into the dead car labyrinth.

But he didn’t go far, circling around to trail Sam as he set off.

Sam didn’t look behind him. He didn’t move fast,  and he stayed careful, but he didn’t look behind him to make sure his tail was covered.

Dean shot him in the back before he had a chance to take a corner. “You’re dead, Sam.”

“Son of a bitch,” Sam swore.

“And it wasn’t cheating,” Dean said. He wiped at the bright pink dye and oil with a paper towel. “Try it again. Bobby! We’re going again!” Dean hustled out before Sam could see the grin on his face.

This was fun.

Dean had come up with something great, and Sam was going to learn a lot and make it through - covered in paint because he was a big galoot, but he would make it. He’d come up with something cool, built something.

He tried sneaking up on Sam but the clever little brother had spotted him or heard him and Dean had a splotch of green paint on his shoulder. He grinned. Sam had gotten him. He holstered his paintball gun and walked back to the beginning of the course. A soft chime sounded from a pocket of his shooting vest, and he took it out, noticing the area code for Nebraska.

“Hello.”

“Dean?” Jo asked.

“Hey,” Dean smiled and let the sound of it carry. “Jo. How’s it going?”

“It’s fine. Ash is done already, so come by any time.”

“Seriously? All right,” Dean said. “Should we—no, we shouldn’t come tonight, it’d be too late to drive back.”

“You could stay overnight. There’s a couple rooms in the back. A bit cold,” Jo said.

Nope. No way. Uh uh. “Better if we just come by tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jo said. “We’ll expect you at around four in the afternoon. Ash will be up by then.”

She hung up on him and Dean smiled at the phone.

“Goddammit!” Sam hollered, and Bobby cackled.

“How close?”

“He could see the ribbon,” Bobby hollered, and Dean laughed. They were training to fight monsters, Dean was a fugitive, probably Sam too, but this was more fun than he’d had in …he couldn’t even remember.

“Sammy!” he yelled. “We’re going to Nebraska tomorrow.”

*

They made it to the Roadhouse at 3:30 and Ash was already up, playing 9-ball with a guy in BDU’s and a plaid shirt. Ash stared down a two bank shot with a squint of concentration, then nodded and slid the cue back.

Dean watched the shot go down flawlessly, and he wanted to play the man. Ash was good. He cleaned the table and shook the man’s hand before turning to Sam and Dean.

“Where’ve you guys been? I finished yesterday.” Ash lifted one finger, asking for attention. “Check it out.”

He promptly dropped to the ground, out of sight. Dean glanced at Sam, and looked back to where Dean had last seen Ash before he hit the dirt.

“Did you find the demon?”

“It’s nowhere around, but if it pops up, I’ll know it.” Ash popped up like a jack in the box, bearing a heavy looking computer case. It was covered in wires and had extra… stuff mounted to it, like it had been upgraded with baling wire and chewing gum. “I’ve got this set up to go off when reports connected to demon sign show up in a certain radius. It’ll go off like a fire alarm. Give me your phone numbers.”

“What for?”

“Text messages with links and coordinates,” Ash said. “Emails too. When my machine knows, you’ll know.”

Time would see if Ash’s machine would get any results. “Thanks, Ash. That’s really great.”

“No problem,” Ash said. “It was fun. Speaking of, I made a copy of all your research there. Noticed something. I’m gonna chase it down. If I turn something up, I’ll give you a call.”

“And we’ll stop in, next time we’re out this way,” Sam said.

“You boys ever need a place to stay, I’ve got a couple of beds in back,” Ellen said.

“Thanks, Ellen. We’re good at Bobby’s at the moment. But—”

“We could stay for a couple of days, maybe talk to some more hunters,” Sam said. “When we’re ready to go out in the field.”

“You mean to ride along with a hunter?” Jo asked.

“Yeah.” Dean smiled at her. “Maybe on a ghost hunt, cursed object, something like that.”

“I handle some local work,” Jo said. “If I spot a salt and burn, I’ll give you a call.”

Dean did his best not to look surprised, but Jo laughed anyway.


	7. All that is Alive and Maybe Sacred

Dean woke up from the fifth night without a dream from Castiel and wondered if something had happened to him.

The last dream Dean remembered had been the replay of the Colorado vampire nest with Sam. They’d bashed their heads against that simulation for half the night, and then Cas had taken him for a walk along a dirt trail in a rainforest, like Washington or Oregon, with huge trees that had reached into the sky for a thousand years. They hadn’t really talked about anything besides the life all around them, and it had seemed like they’d only walked for about fifteen minutes before Dean had faded into soft darkness and then waking.

The first time Sam had woken up after a training dream he wanted to go over every detail and how real it had seemed, completely stoked to go to the half empty warehouse and kick Dean’s ass in the frigid air. The dream had stirred a sense of competition in Sam. Two months later, he was still determined to do better.

That wasn’t a bad thing. But he didn’t know if Cas still had to stay away, or what. And he wasn’t sure why he was wondering. He was used to the nocturnal training dreams. Five days without one was a long stretch.

Sam whimpered in his sleep.

Dean was up in a heartbeat, watching. Sam’s face was tight, and he shifted in the tangled mess of his blankets. Dean pressed his hand into the center of his chest and the scar bumped under his knuckles.

_Sex dream or nightmare?_ Dean wondered.

Sam sat up with a gasp, panting, “Dean!”

“I’m up, Sam.”

His eyes were wild. Dean wondered if Sam was actually awake or if he was caught in one of his terrors. “Dean, I had a dream. One of those dreams. I know it was.”

“Okay.” Dean grabbed a tape recorder that was already loaded with an old cassette. “Tell me what you remember.”

“Whoa,” Dean said. “Totally _Christine._ ”

Sam had seen an old Plymouth Valiant pull into the attached garage of a typical suburban bungalow. The garage door closed, the man couldn’t turn off the car’s engine or open the car door, and had struggled to escape until he lost consciousness.

Dean held the tape recorder between them and asked, “Cursed object, you thinking?”

“Might be.” Sam already filled a bag on his bed with clothes for the trip.

“ You see anything that would help us find him? Like a license plate?”

“That would have been convenient.” Sam scrubbed at his face. “Ugh.”

“Do you remember anything that could _help?”_ Dean needed him to settle down and think, not run around throwing socks everywhere. He tried to get Sam’s focus back to the vision. “Slow down. Think about the car. Did you see the back?”

“I didn’t get the plate.” Frustration tinged his voice.

“Stickers, Sam. Anything?”

Sam closed his eyes.  “Wait, red. It’s… a cardinal. Just the head.”

“So, St. Louis?”

Sam opened the dresser on his side of the room and sent an enormous Stanford hoodie flying through the air. It landed on Sam’s bed, one sleeve dangling to the worn carpet on the floor. “No, the logo’s wrong. There was snow on the yard, so somewhere north. A lot of snow.”

“Okay, Sammy. You shower. I’ll try and find a team with the Cardinals name that isn’t St. Louis.”

Sam stared at him.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Really? You just…believe me?”

“I think you know what it’s like to dream the future better than I do,” Dean said. “You think we can get there in time to stop it?”

Sam shook his head. “It hasn’t happened yet. We don’t know where. The guy dies at around 7:00. I’m not holding out hope.”

****  
  


Dean had to move four boxes of herbs and spell supplies off the kitchen table before he could sit at Sam’s laptop with oatmeal simmering on the stove. He searched the web for Cardinals teams and discounted the Arizona Cardinals right away. Ditto the Springfield Cardinals. Same with Louisville, Kentucky. Finally he gave up and called the Roadhouse with the intent of leaving a voicemail for Ash.

But the line picked up. “Dr. Badass speaking.”

“Ash!” Dean said. “You’re up.”

“Still up,” Ash said. “About to go to sleep. What are you looking for?”

“Person, location, whatever we can find.” Dean got up to stir the oats  and shake some cinnamon in the mix. “All we have is that the car is an old Plymouth Valiant, there’s a lot of snow, and a Cardinals logo on the bumper, but Sam says it’s not the St. Louis logo.”

“ _Sam_ says? Never mind. All right. States with snow - how much?”

“Sam said a lot, and he’s from Wisconsin.”

“So maybe lake effect,” Ash said. Dean could hear him tapping. “Huh. Saginaw Valley State University, maybe? Hang on, I’m hacking the DMV.”

Sam came downstairs and Dean held up his hand for quiet. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“State government infrastructure?” Ash made a rude noise with his lips. “Okay. Plymouth Valiant? Can’t be many of those…”

Dean listened to keyboard clicks on the other side.

“Aren’t many of those.” Ash typed a little more. “Are only nine of those. Oh, shitballs.”

“What?” Dean asked.

Ash was quiet, but his fingers tapped on the keyboard with mechanical clicks. “How’d Sam know about this, Dean?”

Dean froze. Fuck. _Fuck._ “Why you ask?”

“You remember that other research thing I said I was gonna look into?”

“Yeah, but you never told us what.”

“I found a 1971 Plymouth Valiant registered to James Miller, and I think I got a Yahtzee.”

Dean’s heart pounded. “Why?”

“Because I found police reports and insurance claims for the 1983 nursery fire and death of Lorraine Miller, survived by her six-month-old son Max and husband James.”

Dean nearly dropped the phone. His hands went cold. His chest hurt; the scar ached. “Shit.”

“But the Demon Early Warning system is sleeping like a baby. No demon activity showing up in Saginaw for the last month,” Ash said. “I mean nothing.”

“Well, I think we’re going to head up there. When you wake up, can you keep digging?”

“You already owe me three beers.”

“Make it six.”

“My man,” Ash said, and hung up.

*

Dean left Sam to pack the car and slipped out to the back of Singer Auto, stepping high through the snow. He kept walking all the way to the back where cars had lain dead for so long that they were entwined by bushes and vines, slowly consumed by the earth.

“Cas,” Dean said out loud. “Look, don’t come if it’s still not safe, but—”

He stopped talking at the rush of wings.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Where have you been?”

“Bolivia,” Castiel said.

He looked just the same as always: trench coat, white shirt, blue tie, black pants, all of it a bit rumpled. He appeared less than arm’s length away, and watched Dean intently.

_His eyes are blue._ Dean’s noticed that before, but not how dark they were. He had lines around his eyes and furrows on his brow that made Dean think that he was eight, maybe ten years older than Dean’s twenty-six and he smiled at Dean, just a little.

Dean gave him a little smile back, and widened the space between them. “Is it safe for you to come back? I don’t want you springing some kind of angel ambush.”

Castiel’s smile grew warmer. “I’m fine, Dean. You prayed for me, and I came. Are you well-rested now?”

“Sorry?”

“I realized that I may have been overzealous in my training schedule,” Castiel said. “I decided to stop the simulations and give you both time to breathe.”

Dean smiled and hoped it was reassuring. “Yeah, that’s all fine. Look, Cas. I need to talk to you about Sammy.”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed. “What about Sam? Is he well?”

“He had one of his nightmare visions. We’re going to Michigan to check it out.”

“If you’re going in the field I will be nearby,” Castiel said. “I can take a turn driving.”

He looked so happy at the prospect. Dean had a mental picture of Cas driving, Sam in the front seat, Dean in the back, jiggling that little army man Sammy had crammed into the ashtray when he was five. “Thanks. But Sam’s worried. He thinks he’s—”

Castiel leaned closer. “Thinks he’s what, Dean?”

Dean shoved his chilly hands in his pockets. He looked down at his feet, the toes of  his boots dusted with snow. “The other Sam, is he evil?”

“No,” Castiel said, carefully. “He’s a good man. You have no reason to fear him.”

“Why would I—”

Castiel’s face went blank.

“I was scared of him,” Dean felt cold snake down his back. “I was scared of my own brother?”

Castiel barely shook his chin from side to side, then grimaced.

“Okay. What did I do?” Dean demanded. “The other me, the one who spent half his life killing monsters?”

“You were there for him,” Castiel said.

“So, heart to heart talks watching the sun rise? That’s it?”

“Sam has his road. You have your own. But your bond with each other will save the world, Dean. It’s not trivial.”

Dean looks back at Cas. “Awesome. So who saves us?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He shifted back on his heels and his eyes flitted off Dean to look at the rusted out car bodies around them.

Dean said what he’d already guessed. “It’s you, isn’t it.”

“We should go back to the house,” Castiel said. “You’re cold.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

Castiel took two steps forward and slipped, barely catching his balance.

“You need treads on your shoes.” Dean offered his elbow before he really thought about what he was doing.  

They walked back, Castiel holding onto Dean’s arm to save him from his leather soled shoes. Snow squeaked under their feet.

“How will I know if he starts to go bad?”

“You have a clear moral sense, Dean.”

Dean’s disdain puffed out in a cloud in front of him. “The other me committed fraud on a daily basis.”

“For food, clothing, and shelter while you worked tirelessly to save people from the things you hunted.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, and I can’t really judge me. I’m living out of stolen cash in a duffel bag.”

“Considering the source of that money, I wouldn’t feel too bad, Dean.”

“Where’s the money from?” Dean asked.

Castiel smiled, a small curve of slightly parted lips. “I robbed banks.”

“Plural?”

“Three thousand and thirty two banks.”

Dean whistled. “Nice move, D.B. Cooper.”

They walked around the house and met Sam, who was organizing the trunk. Probably wrong, and Dean would have to fix it.

Castiel still held onto his arm.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Did you two enjoy your walk?”

Dean was about to answer _cram it, Sammy,_ but Castiel spoke first.

“Dean told me you’re going into the field,” Castiel said. “I’m going too.”

“Sam, you’ve got Minnesota. Cas, you’ve got Wisconsin. I’ll take over when we hit Chicago,” Dean said.

Castiel got into the back seat. Dean stretched out on the passenger side and braced himself for Sam’s rivethead music and his lead foot.

“You gave Sam most of the driving,” Castiel said.

“And this surprises you,” Dean said. “The other me hogs the steering wheel, huh?”

“You are quite possessive of this car, yes,” Castiel said.

“It must throw you off,” Sam said, taking it easy through the town. “All the differences, I mean.”

“Those are the surface details,” Castiel said. “The external changes are how this other life shaped you.”

“What kind of changes?” Sam asked.

“Dean graduates from high school with foundational training in building,” Castiel said. “Dean’s natural aptitude for building and repairing is the same.”

“I’ve always been handy,” Dean agrees. “So what does the other me make?”

“You’ve rebuilt this car from the ground up a few times,” Castiel answered. “But you dropped out of school, got your GED, and you hunt.”

“And run scams.”

“You hustle pool,” Castiel said. “You’re quite good. Sam helps.”

Sam laughed. “I don’t.”

Castiel leaned on the middle of the front seat’s backrest and nodded emphatically. “You do. You show up and tell him not to lay the bet. It’s an important part of the method.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Sam shoulder-checked and took the exit for I-90E.

Dean turned in his seat so he can look at Sam driving and Castiel leaned over the middle, a gesture so easy Dean wondered if the other them went on road trips with an angel and called it another day that ended in “Y”.

“So Dean still can fix about anything. What was I like?” Sam said.

Dean watched the speedometer needle push to the right.

“You question things. There is no cure for your curiosity. You long for a stable home and hate being shuffled from school to school. Once, you even run away.”

“I do?” Sam asked, surprised. “Does Dean come with me?”

“No. But you go back because of him.”

“Dean always ran away from wherever he was, when they tried to separate us,” Sam said. “I run away and he doesn’t come with me?” Sam glanced at Dean, looking a little worried.

“Dean tried to be obedient.”

“What else happened? How’d I get into Stanford if we were on the road all the time?”

“Bobby,” Castiel said. “He helps you falsify your academic transcripts secretly, holds your mail while you apply to schools, and supports you leaving hunting to attend Stanford.”

Sam greeted this answer with silence and that muscle jumping in his jaw.

“So what?” Dean asked.

“So I ditched you, Dean,” Sam said. “I leave you behind with John. Fuck.”

“You go to Stanford anyway,” Dean said.

“That’s different. I left you with him.”

Dean looked out the window at the snowy, flat fields. “It wasn’t that bad, Sam.”

“I know you don’t think it was,” Sam said. “The other me’s a douche, though.”

“Hey, ease off the gas,” Dean said. “This isn’t the Indy.”

“Mad,” Sam muttered.

“I can drive for an hour,” Dean offered.

“I got it.” Sam slowed the car down to a downright poky seventy miles per hour. But he stayed broody for a hundred miles, and when he climbed into the backseat for Castiel’s turn at the wheel, he put on headphones and read _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince._

Castiel drove to Outkast. He kept the volume down and tapped out the beat on the steering wheel. Dean found that he was nodding on beat as the miles passed.

“So what was in Bolivia?” Dean asked.

“Butterflies.”

Dean tried to find something to say, and settled on “Butterflies.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“The southern hemisphere has splendid and beautiful butterflies,” Castiel said, and talked about their adaptation and—much to Dean’s astonishment—about the violent behavior of butterflies defending territory and seeking mates.

“Butterflies fight each other.” Dean shook his head over that almost all the way to Chicago.

They passed a terraced, snow-covered garden bearing a sign that declared, “Welcome to the Saginaw Valley,” and a goose walked over Dean’s grave. It felt like deja vu.

_Maybe we've been here before,_ Dean thought. _On the road with John, hunting Dracula._ It didn’t quell the feeling that something had just happened that clicked into place.

“Cas,” Dean said. “Are we headed toward another fixed point? Did the other Sam and Dean go to Saginaw?”

“You do,” Castiel said.

“So what did we find?”

“You already know, part of it.”

“There’s another one. Like Sam,” Dean said.

“What about me?” Sam pulled his earbuds out.

“Oh hey, checked in I see,” Dean said. “I was just asking Cas what we find in Saginaw.”

“Max Miller,” Sam said. “Another kid whose mom got killed by a demon. One of the Damiens.”

“Sam, you’re not evil,” Dean said. “Stop thinking that.”

“How do you know?” Sam demanded.

“Castiel told me.”

Sam swiveled his head to watch Castiel, half suspicious. “That true?”

“Sam, what was done to you doesn’t change who you are,” Castiel said. “This motel here, Carey’s. Pull in.”

Carey’s Motor Inn was one of those places where the room was right in front of your parking space. Castiel winked out before they got out of the car.

Dean paid cash, agreed that it was colder than a witches’ tit out there, and signed the register as Gary Conner. The sign-in area was decorated with real pine paneling and the wandering vines of a houseplant that probably didn’t need much light to thrive,  judging by the way it meandered across the acoustic tile of the ceiling.

He could hardly wait to see what the room looked like, and was rewarded with stained burgundy carpet printed with cabbage roses, pale blue bedspreads and more paneling, this time the classic printed pressboard from fifty years ago.

“Well.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed.

“Okay,” Dean said. “You hungry?”

“I saw a takeout place just before we pulled in,” Sam said. “I’ll be back.”

And just like that, Sam managed to escape. Dean tried not to look at the carpet.

“It might be safe, Cas, but it’s really unfortunate looking.”

“It was this or zig-zag,” Castiel said, and Dean turned around to find the angel less than two feet away from him.

“Help me, God,” Dean muttered.

“I believe my father isn’t listening,” Castiel said.

“You said something about that,” Dean said. “Is it why you rebel?”

“Only in part,” Castiel said.

“What’s the rest?”

Castiel looked away. “There’s a lot of factors.”

Dean snorted. “You suck at lying, Castiel.”

“I am adept at carrying out deception, Dean, but I said that I would tell you the truth, and when I couldn’t, I just wouldn’t answer.”

“Yeah, and then I worm it out of you anyway,” Dean said. “Was it us? Because obviously you want to stop the apocalypse, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.”

“You were part of it,” Castiel admits. “But there’s more.”

“What more?”

Castiel shrugged. “Angels are dicks.”

“You don’t seem like a dick to me.”

“I’ve changed a lot in four years. I’ve been through a lot. I understand things other angels can’t. Because of you.”

“What do I do? What could I possibly do?”

“You are a righteous man, Dean. You, and you on the true path. I learn a great deal from you.”

“So we—you and the other me—we’re friends.”

“You are my friend, Dean.”

“But you’re here because of him.”

“I’m here for you,” Castiel said. “To protect you and your brother.”

“So we’ll be there to stop the apocalypse,” Dean said. “Sometimes I can’t believe that I believe you.”

The front door opened, and Dean startled.

“I got you a bacon cheeseburger and fries,” Sam said, and then stopped. “Whoa. Did I interrupt something?”

This time it was Castiel who stepped back. “We were just talking. Dean often has to remind me about the difference in personal space between humans.”

“You mean the other Dean,” Sam said.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Castiel said. “I’ll go—”

“Scout the area.” Dean rubbed his face. He hadn’t shaved this morning. He’d have to fix that.

Castiel was gone in a rush of wings.

“Dean. Quit mooning and eat your cheeseburger,” Sam said, waving a paper bag in the air.

“Shut up. I was just thinking.” He took the bag and could smell mustard and ketchup. His mouth watered.

“About Castiel?”

The question could have been innocent, but Dean made a face anyway. “What’s this?”

Dean picked up the reciept for The Burger Barn and flipped it over. “Who’s Meg?”

“Girl,” Sam said, through a mouthful of cheeseburger.

“Who gave you her phone number,” Dean said, and Sam shrugged.

“She was 45 cents short on her order, I covered it. She’s on her way across the country, and--”

“She wanted you to hook up.”

“We’re on the job,” Sam ducked his head and ate a fry. “No distractions.”

“You could if you wanted to.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Okay,” Dean shrugged, and spoke through a mouthful of burger. “I was thinking. What’s the one thing that always gets us killed stupid in those dream simulations?”

“Not enough legwork,” Sam said.

“Right,” Dean said. “So let’s get some background on the Millers before we go charging in.”

The next morning saw them in the local library, searching through old newspapers for the story of the fire at the Miller house and the address of Max Miller’s childhood home, in a pretty neighborhood full of well maintained old houses, save one.

Dean eyed the angled, asymmetrical roof and all-glass front of a modern shed style in the midst of narrow Victorians. This was the kind of neighborhood Dean knew well. He’d done a few restorations on old houses, and recognized house designs that he knew from working in Milwaukee.

“Feels weird, not having business cards on a street like this,” Dean said.

“I guess. Let’s start knocking on doors,” Sam said.

It didn’t take them long to find someone who remembered the Millers. “Insurance paid for that house,” the man said, “And everyone felt the tragedy too much to protest over the style when they rebuilt.”

“There was a fire?” Dean asked.

“Sure was,” the man said. “Horrible. That poor boy lost his mother, and I can’t help but wonder if it had gone better for him if his mother hadn’t died in the fire.”

“Why do you say that?” Sam shook his head as if he were dizzy.

Dean stopped a half-step toward his brother. “You alright, Sam?”

“Fine,” Sam answered. “I’ll be fine.”

“It was a hell of a thing,” the man said. “Wouldn’t have gone on the way it did back then.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “Used to be people saw discipline as a private family matter, but that boy’s father was a brute.”

“You saw him hurting the Miller boy?” Dean asked.

The neighbor’s mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.  “I saw him break that boy’s arm, twisting it out in the street. Called the police, they didn’t do a damn thing. Child welfare just said they’d send the father to counseling and AA.”

Dean flinched. “What about foster care?”

“They said they wouldn’t consider it without multiple reports,” the man replied. “Probably be different now, but it was a different world back then. Sometimes I worry that boy didn’t make it.”

“Then—then what happened?” Sam asked.

“They moved,” the man said. “I wasn’t the only one called the police about them. They moved when the boy was about six. Are you all right? You look a little green.”

“Headache,” Sam said. “Felt it coming, ignored it, paying the price.”

“I better get him back to his medication,” Dean said. “He gets migraines.”

“Bad ones,” Sam gasped. “Thanks for talking to us.”

“You want something for that? I’ve got some Advil.”

“Thank you, I just really have to go—Dean,” Sam gasped.

“I got you, Sammy,” Dean slung sam’s arm over his shoulder and walked him to the car. He opened the back seat and Sam crawled in.

Not bothering to explain, Dean got in the Impala and headed for the motel. “Castiel.”

The sound of wings came before Dean finished saying Castiel’s name.

“Sam’s manifesting,” Castiel said. “Waking visions are painful.”

“Can you do anything?”

“He’s going to kill her,” Sam said, and gasped in pain. “She’s terrified. Hurry, Dean! we have to stop him.”

Dean kept driving away from the Miller house.

“We have to go talk to Max,” Sam said.

“Sam, you just went Dead Zone out there.” Dean looked to Castiel, who shook his head. “Oh come on, not you too.”

“She’ll die, Dean, because I didn’t do anything,” Sam struggled to sit up. “I couldn’t get here in time to save Max’s dad, and from what I hear of him, I don’t care, but we can save her.”

“Cas,” Dean said. “You’re the tie breaker.”

“Do you try to save her life, or not?” Castiel asked.

Dean swore and took his first right.

The Millers’ new house was in one of those outlying cul-de-sac neighborhoods with sprawling mid-century houses. Dean reached across and opened the glove box, retrieving a nickel-plated Colt 1911 semi-auto with a mother of pearl handle. The weapon was a bit flashy but Dean had taken it apart and cleaned it, and he knew how it fired. He wished he’d had the sense to put on a holster. He hated stuffing a handgun in his waistband. But there was no time - Sam was already on the front porch. Castiel stood beside Sam, but the angel’s attention was on Dean, frowning as Dean got out of the Impala and finally caught up as the door opened.

This had to be Max Miller. He had sandy hair cut short to fight a curl. He looked clammy and pale, the shadows under his eyes a violet bruise, and he stared at Sam in horror.

“You,” he said. “You’re one of them.”

“You are, too,” Sam said. “You had a dream about me?”

“You try to stop me,” Max said, and Dean had to look away from the anguish on his face. “I won’t let you. I have to do this.”

“Let’s talk about this,” Sam said. “Just talk. Okay?”

“Max,” Castiel said. “What your father did to you was wrong. It wasn’t your fault. But Sam needs to know about what you dream.”

Dean turns away from the assembly on the front step. “People are gonna start wondering what’s going on in this house, with all of us standing out here.”

“So go.”

“Can’t do that, Max,” Sam said. “I need to make sure your mom is okay.”

“She’s not my mother,” Max said. “My mother is dead.”

“So’s mine,” Sam said. “She died in a fire that started in my nursery when I was six months old.”

“I know,” Max said.

“Max,” Sam said, in that soft, coaxing voice one used on scared kids. “I think you’re talking to us because you don’t want to hurt your stepmom, not totally. Let us inside. We’ll figure this out.”

Max opened the door wide enough to let them in.

Dean cleared the stairs, scanned the front room where Max’s stepmother had her back to the wall just beside the kitchen. She stared at the knife floating in the air, poised right in front of her eye.  She looked at Dean for one terrified instant before she focused back on Max and wept out the words, “Max, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Max said. “You just don’t want to die.”

“Max,” Sam said. “Look at Colleen. She’s terrified.”

“Good.” Max’s voice was thick with tears. “She deserves it.”

“Did she hurt you too, Max?”

“No,” Max said. “But she never did anything to stop it.”

“Did your dad hurt her too?” Dean asked.

Colleen blubbered something Dean couldn’t make out.

“No. She just ignored it, like it wasn’t happening.” Max sniffed hard. The knife vibrated in the air. “She acted like we weren’t there when he worked me over last week.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “Say you do it, and put that knife in her eye.”

Dean whipped his head around to stare at Sam, but his brother went on. “Will it mean the same thing that it meant to stop your Dad from hurting you?”

“That’s not the point,” Max said. “You’re trying to confuse me.”

“I’m trying to help,” Sam said. “You stopped your Dad, and now he can’t hurt you any more. If Colleen didn’t hurt you, what will killing her do for you?”

“She deserves it,” Max said. “Don’t you see?”

“Because she didn’t help you.”

“Yes!”

“Lots of people didn’t help you, Max,” Sam held his hands out to Max, palms showing, open. “I talked to the neighbor who lived across the street from your old house.”

“Mr. MacKenzie?”

“I think so. He says the police came, and they didn’t help you. Are you going to find them and kill them too?”

Dean shifted. “Don’t give him ideas, Sammy.”

“I should,” Max said. “I should.”

“Is that what you’re going to do, Max? When will it be over?”

“When she dies,” Max hissed.

“And then when it’s over, what will you do?”

“What do you mean, what will I do,” Max sneered. “There’s a plan for us.”

Sam hesitated for just a second. “What plan, Max?”

“For us. The special children. There’s a war coming.”

“How do you know this, Max?”

“He told me. When he came. I thought it was a dream. He told me I could fight back, if I made a promise. He gave me what I needed to be strong.”

“What did he make you promise?”

“To tell you about him,” Max said. “And to make the people who hurt me pay.”

Dean raised his pistol and took aim. “Can’t let you do that, Max. Put the knife down.”

Max grimaced and the gun flew out of Dean’s hands. It sailed out of reach, then turned on him.

“You stay out of this,” Max said. “It’s not about you.”

The hammer cocked. Dean licked his lips and tried to swallow. “She’s innocent,” Dean said.

_“No, she’s not!”_ Max screamed, and everything happened at once.

Dean hit the coffee table and felt something in his wrist crunch, followed by a sharp lance of pain in his elbow. His ears rang from the sound of the shot, loud enough to deafen. Sam shouted and Dean tried to get back on his feet, his left arm burning hot with pain that screeched with his movements. Colleen was screaming now, full throated with terror.

Castiel stood perfectly still and stared at a bullet suspended in midair an inch away from his face.

“Thank you, Sam.”

Castiel slowly turned his gaze on Max, who was drenched with sweat and tears. His eyes were nearly swollen shut. Max held up a hand, and the gun spun around to face him.

“Max,” Castiel said. “You can still be saved.”

“No,” Max said, and the gun went off a second time.

Max and the knife hit the floor. Colleen sobbed brokenly.

Castiel plucked the bullet out of the air and turned to Dean. His strong hands were soft on his face, and Dean looked at him in shock.

Castiel gazed back, and waves of cold and hot prickles bloomed across Dean’s skin, sunk down into his bones. Dean gasped and startled as the pain in his wrist flared and disappeared. Warmth and fuzzy serenity washed over Dean like he’d been wrapped in a cocoon of velvet blankets, like every compassionate touch he’d ever felt was on him at once.

Dean stared at Castiel, who still had his hand on Dean's face.

“You healed me.”

“Yes.”

“Uh…thanks, Cas.”

Sam coughed, and only the table parked up against Dean’s calf kept him from leaping away.

Castiel put his hands in his pockets and stepped toward Sam, who held a sobbing Colleen Miller in his arms.

“Can you help her?” Sam asked.

“I can.” Castiel didn’t move.

“Well?”

“Evil flourished in this house while she stood by and did nothing,” Castiel said. “She didn’t even try to comfort him when it was over.”

He turned his gaze to the woman on the floor.

“Colleen Miller.”

She looked up and choked.

Castiel stood over her, eyes aglow, the shadow of his spread wings terrible.

“Look at me,” Castiel said. “Do you know what I am?”

She nodded.

“I have judged you, Colleen Miller. You failed this boy. Live with that knowledge, and never forget.”

Castiel turned and strode out.

****  
  


Castiel was gone when they walked out of the Miller house, and they spent the ride back to the motel in silence.

They had the room for one more night and Dean didn’t even glance at the carpet. He fell on his bed, boots hanging over the edge, and he’d be just fine like that for the next day or so. He didn’t want to think. Not about Max, not about the plan Sam was supposed to be a part of, not about Castiel judging Colleen Miller and walking away.

He fought to remember what it felt like for that moment after Cas healed him. If he could bottle that, he’d be rich. He tried to bring that feeling back, considered rolling up in his blankets to try and replicate it.

What kept coming back to him was Castiel, standing stock still and looking at the bullet he would have taken if Sam hadn’t stopped it with the power of his mind.  Castiel put himself in harm’s way to save Dean. Did he know Sam would use his powers? How could he just stand there, ready to take that blow? He had looked impassive. Until he turned to Dean and healed him, and that feeling.

How he wanted to feel that again. To be able to remember it. Anything. He reached for the neatly made edge of the bedcovers, prepared to try wrapping himself up like a burrito.

Sam walked in and slammed the door behind him. He dropped two bags on the carpet and clomped his great big feet across the room and huffed, “What the hell happened back there?”

“Castiel got his angel of the Lord on,” Dean said. “Not sure she deserved that.”

Sam stared at him like he’d grown another head. “Are you kidding? Of course she did. Come on, Dean, if you witnessed an adult beating the hell out of a kid, you’d do something.”

“I would. You would. And then we’d walk away, Sammy, and feel good about ourselves for a week.” Dean flopped an arm over his eyes, blocking the light. “Think it’s different when you’re living inside the bubble like that.”

“How can you defend her?”

“Because I don’t know what’s at stake,” Dean said. “John yelled at me because I wasn’t protecting you, usually. Then that thing with the shtriga… he was right to yell at me, Sam. I was fucking up.”

“That shouldn’t have been on you,” Sam said, and unzipped his bag. “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”

Dean groaned and sat up. “Think the rulebooks get thrown out when your family’s marked out by demons, Sam. I’m not saying that what he did was right, just…what else could he do? The whole thing is fucked up.”

“I won’t forgive him,” Sam said.

“Not asking you to,” Dean muttered. “Just—I see it differently.”

They traded driving shifts every three and a half hours and pulled into Sioux Falls just before midnight. They dragged their asses into the house, where Bobby was on the phone with a hunter, dictating the rite of exorcism over the phone.

_“te rogamus, audi nos.”_ Bobby gave them a nod as they stepped into the kitchen. Dean waved back and flopped into a chair. Sam stuck his head in the fridge, came out with a jug of milk.

He put that down and added a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for Dean and granola for himself, and they ate cereal while Bobby finished up on the phone.

“Was that about a demon possession?” Dean asked. The milk was getting to that perfect cinnamony balance and he ate faster.

“They’ve been coming out of the woodwork,” Bobby reached into the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and munched on them dry. “Used to be, I’d hear about maybe three possessions in a year. I’ve had calls on seventeen of them since September. I can hardly wait to see what happens when it warms up.”

“I can tell.” Sam sat back with his bowl cradled in his oversized hand.

“I think it’s got to do with what got you boys into the life.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean said.

“There’s something going on, Bobby,” Sam said.

They told him about Max Miller, instructed to pass on the message to Sam that there were more people out there like him, and that they had been planned for.

“Something about a war,” Sam said. “I don’t know who they expect me to fight for, but it’s not going to be demons.”

“Well, at least you boys can spend the day sleeping in your own beds.” Bobby had jotted down a couple of notes about Sam and Dean’s report, and he peered at them now, as if he could tell there were things that they didn’t say.

“We should get some sleep,” Dean said. “I can’t even keep my eyes open.”

Bobby set his shoulders and frowned at nothing.

“Bobby, what is it?” Sam asked.

“Got a bad feeling about this,” Bobby said. “A storm’s coming, boys. And you two are smack in the middle of it.”

*

Dean fell into his narrow bed with a groan of relief. He’d barely managed to strip to boxers and get under the covers, and nothing was going to budge him for the next day, if he could help it.

He barely managed a “good night, Sammy,” in response to the sounds of Sam coming into the room. Dean thought he heard Sammy say something, but he was already fading into the velvety blackness of sleep, the blankets tucked around and under him snugly.

The beach Dean and Castiel walked on was made of pure black pebbly sand. Jagged rocks thrust up toward a cloud-covered sky, and a chilly breeze swirled around them.

“This can’t be Bolivia,” Dean said.

“It’s Iceland,” Castiel said. “The village of Vik. It’s a beautiful place.”

“It’s kind of barren,” Dean said. The black sand swallowed the light, except where it glistened with water. It was spare, starkly coloured, verging on the monochromatic.

“Beautiful places replenish grace,” Castiel said. “Or properly, the feeling of humbled awe that I experience as a result of being confronted with beauty replenishes my grace.”

“So you visit beaches and forests,” Dean looked at Castiel, who smiled at his understanding.

“And art galleries, performances. Dancing works well.”

“But you mean, live,” Dean said. “This is Memorex.”

“Yes.” Castiel cocked his head and smiled at Dean, pleased at a gifted student grasping a lesson. “My stay in Bolivia helped. I’m not quite at full capacity, but I’m as close as I’m going to get while I’m in this fold.”

“You’re not depleted, after you—the healing?”

“Not terribly.”

“Then you should be off looking at something beautiful.”

Castiel reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m fine, Dean.”

Dean froze.

“Should I stop?”

Dean didn’t want it to stop. “Guys don’t … there’s no ‘just a friend’ context for guys holding hands.”

“I’m an angel,” Castiel said. “And it’s a dream.”

Dean exhaled. “Okay.”

Castiel loosed his grip but Dean curled his fingers around and squeezed back. “There’s a village, you said?”

“It’ll be empty,” Castiel said.

“So if we went to Paris, it would be—”

The world melted into a groomed park. The Eiffel Tower rose in the distance.

“Empty,” Castiel said.

“There’s no one here but us.”

“No one,” Castiel said.

Dean looked around. “That would be lonely.”

But it wasn’t lonely. He was alone with Castiel. Or Castiel was alone with him, whichever. His friend the angel. Or…maybe not friend, exactly…

“You are my friend, Dean,” Castiel said.

“Can you read my thoughts?”

“I try not to,” Castiel said.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have asked,” Dean said, with a little laugh.

“It’s not your responsibility to control your thoughts,” Castiel said. “It’s mine to respect your privacy. What do you want to see?”

“I want to see the stars again,” Dean said.

****  
  


“Where are we?” Dean tugged on Castiel’s arm. He sat down, then lay on his back in tall grass, the sky a huge glittering dome overhead.

“Wakapatu Bay is nearby.”

“Wackawhata what?”

“It’s in New Zealand.”

“All right,” Dean said. “So I’m not going to recognize anything. You sure like the southern hemisphere.”

“We could go to Alert,” Castiel said.

“Bet that’s near the north pole, so no,” Dean smiled up at the unfamiliar stars. Castiel huffed out a laugh and settled back.

“Cas.” Dean reached out, groping for the angel’s hand.

Castiel turned his hand palm up, curled his fingers around as they made contact. “Dean.”

“You went all Secret Service on me at Max’s. You stepped in front of a bullet for me.”

“I broke your wrist.”

Dean laughed. “You fixed it. If Sam hadn’t stopped it—”

“It would have inconvenienced me for a minute or two,” Castiel said. “It would have killed you.”

“And you can’t heal dead.”

“Not without using so much grace I’d have to sleep and eat for a very long time,” Castiel said. “It would be different if I weren’t—”

“In revolt?”

“In this fold of time,” Castiel said. “I feared that my grace wouldn’t replenish at all. But it does, slowly.”

“Well I’ll try not to die,” Dean said. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Castiel stroked the back of Dean’s hand with his thumb.

Dean tensed again.

“It’s a dream,” Castiel said, and didn’t stop.

The roll of his stomach fought with the warmth sliding over Dean’s hand. “Are angels more…touchy feely than people?”

Castiel chuckled. “You mean, ‘Are angels more touchy feely than you’re used to.’ Yes.”

Castiel said that he shared a more profound bond with the other Dean. Maybe they did this.

“You must feel lonely,” Dean said. “You’re alone.”

“A little,” Castiel admitted.

Dean nodded, and scooted a little closer.

The next morning, Bobby started packing his truck with carefully wrapped copies of some of his older journals. “Gonna go on a day trip, do a little trading,” he said. “You boys can hold the fort. Garage is closed until Tuesday.”

The lore line rang off the hook. Dean had repeated the URL for the devil’s trap illustrations ten times already, and he might as well have just started reciting the rite of holy water rather than say hello.

Ken MacLeod was on the trail of a demon in New Mexico, but he spent a fair amount of time talking about nice restaurants in Taos, while he relayed information about the string of possessions and property destruction he’d been following. When Dean’s cell phone rang, he was about ready to sing hallelujah.

“Ken, that’s another call, I’ve got to go. Enjoy the sunshine.”

He groped in his pocket for his personal phone. “Hello.”

“Come on down to the roadhouse, Dean,” Ash said.

“We’ve got to man the phones,” Dean said. “Bobby is on his way into Wyoming to do some book trading, we can’t leave.”

“I feel you, man, but I’ve got four nursery fires with six-month-old babies surviving their mothers in 1983.”

“Yeah?”

“Max Miller, Scott Carey, Andy Gallagher—” Ash’s voice dropped in volume. “And Sam Winchester.”

Dean stayed silent.

“I checked records, and there’s demon activity all over the town where each of those fires took place. A week before the fires. And then I looked at the records John Winchester was using, and had another look. It’s unmistakable. I don’t want to say that the correlation between demon activity and the fires indicates that demons caused the fires, but I’m just saying.”

“Right,” Dean replied. “Okay, is that all?”

“No,” Ash said. “I found demon activity again. In Milwaukee, and in Palo Alto. Right around the last week of October.”

Dean didn’t answer him.

“So come on down to the roadhouse, Dean. We need to have a talk.”


	8. The Universe is a Big Place, Perhaps the Biggest

Sam and Dean didn’t head out to the Roadhouse until after lunch on Tuesday, since Ash rarely got out of bed before 4:00 PM. They parked in the lot and a skinny man stood up like a half-drawn bow to look at them.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?” he asked.

“That’s us.”

“Rick Jagr,” the man said. “I stick local, Lake Superior area. Thought I’d come down and talk to Jo. I think I got a werewolf who heads south for the winter.”

“Comes back when?” Sam asked, and they all strolled into the bar together.

“Round April,” Rick said.

Hunters raised a hand in greeting for him and John Winchester’s greenhorn sons. Plenty of people were happy to see them, including Ellen, who came out to give Sam a hug that made something in his back click.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Sam said. “That feels better.”

“Then come back more often to get it fixed up.”

Dean was plenty braced for Ellen’s arms around him, and the soothing pet she’d rub over his shoulder blade. He managed to relax into it a bit, but when he stepped back Sam was looking at him.

Jo didn’t come over. She was dressed in BDU’s and a flannel shirt, dragging a duffel with her. She waved at them, and then nodded patiently to whatever hunter at the bar was trying to talk to her when she was busy sorting through a binder in the bar area’s small library.

Dean would say hi if she was still here later. She looked like she was getting ready to go on a hunt.

Ellen caught the direction of Dean’s gaze, and set her voice to carry when she said, “I expect you’re here to see Ash.”

“We are,” Dean agreed.

“Well, take this along with you.” Ellen put a PBR in his hand and sent him towards the room marked with the sign: “Dr. Badass is:” and a second sign under that, turned to “In.”

Dean knocked. “Hey Ash,” he called.

When there was no response, he knocked again louder. “Hey, Dr. Badass!”

The door opened. Flickering television light shone off the walls, and the scent of unwashed laundry wafted through the door.

“Mi casa es su casa.” Ash opened the door wider.

The room wasn’t very big to begin with, and the clutter made it much smaller with Sam and Dean standing in it. There was a pyramid of PBR cans stacked on a water stained side table, and he had a desk with at least three computer monitors crammed on it.

“I figured we better talk in here,” Ash said. “Sam’s been touched by a demon, Dean.”

Dean had to clamp his jaw tight to keep it from dropping. He felt Sam gather himself to his full height.

Ash shook his head and his hair shivered down over his shoulders. “Don’t shit me. I know it. I looked into it. He fit the pattern you were looking for: six month old babies who survived a fire in their nurseries in 1983. You went to see Max Miller after his daddy committed suicide.”

Sam tensed. Dean put up a hand to hold his brother back. They’d never be able to fight their way out of the roadhouse. Dean gave Ash a tight nod.

“Only it wasn’t suicide, was it.”

“No,” Dean said.

“And now Max is dead. Gunshot wound to the head, preliminary medical examination said. You did that?”

He pointed at Sam, who jerked backwards, shaking his head. “He did it to himself.”

Ash drank half the PBR, belched, and asked. “What could he do?”

“Max had telekinesis,” Dean said. “He could make objects move with the power of his mind.”

“And he killed his father?”

“His old man used to beat the tar out of him,” Dean said. “Started when he was a kid and never let up.”

“I get it, sorta,” Ash said. “Sometimes it’s not so easy to just leave. So what can Sam do?”

Dean looked at Sam, who looked like he would disappear if he could.

Ash pointed the empty PBR at him. “Look, there are a lot of hunters out there with a lot of opinions. I want to give you advice on how to handle it so they don’t decide you’re something they oughta hunt.”

“Sam has premonitions,” Dean said. “In dreams, but sometimes when he’s awake too.”

“So he’s a psychic,” Ash said. “Psychics don’t usually become hunters, but that’s what you go with if anyone starts asking. Sam’s a psychic. He has visions about people who are going to die if they don’t get help. That’s your story. Stick to it.”

“We will, Ash,” Dean said. “Thanks.”

“I can move things,” Sam said. “I—”

“Yeah?” Ash picked up an empty can. “Bend this.”

“It doesn’t seem to work like that,” Sam said. “I can only do it when — the only time I’ve done it is to save Dean’s life.”

“Not gonna lie to you Sam, TK’s a fucking handy skill. You do your pushups and train that shit. It might keep on saving your lives. But you’re a psychic, and that’s all, you understand me?”

“Sure do.”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Thank you.”

Ash nodded. “I like you, Sam, and us college boys gotta stick together.” He crushed the beer can in his hand. “You might have noticed Jo is about to go on a ghostbusting trip. She’s headed up to Minneapolis. Ask her nice and she’ll take you along.”

Sam groaned.

“There’s no rest for the wicked. Off you go.”

*

Jo arrived in Sioux Falls first thing in the morning. She ate two waffles, split a third with Dean, and had three cups of black coffee. She took the time to inspect their kits and went over their packed clothes with an irritated mutter. “Don’t you boys have suits?”

Dean blinked. “Where would we wear them?”

“Well for one,” Jo said, patiently, “They come in handy when you’re FBI, CDC—”

“We don’t do that,” Dean said. And they wouldn’t, if Dean had his choice.

“And when you’re trying to fit in somewhere with people who never wore a John Deere snapback in their lives.” Jo rolled her eyes. “So I guess I know what we’re doing on Money Day.”

“No,” Dean said.

“Oh, yes,” Jo said. “I hope you know how to tie a tie.”

“Of course I do,” Dean said, affronted.

“You?” She looked at Sam, who smirked.

“I was about to go into law school,” Sam said. “I just never thought to bring my suit for a life on the lam.”

Sam and Dean rode in the Impala. Jo had a silver Pontiac Grand Prix, and she drove it like she had somewhere to go. Sam smiled at being given the chance to push the speed limit in time with his heavy, relentless music. Dean caught himself counting to four in German under his breath. Sam caught him and started chanting the lyrics.

“Dude, do you even know what this means?”

“It’s about dancing, even though the world is going to shit, because there’s nothing else you can do,” Sam said.

“Well.”

“Yes.”

Dean thought to himself that they could be right, so he let his head nod in time to the music.

Sam eyed him and asked, “Castiel okay with being left behind?”

Cas hadn't shown up to Bobby's. They'd dreamwalked along a grey sand beach framed by tall, wooded cliffs, the surf gently splashing around Dean's ankles, and Dean had only said that Cas knew about their trip when Sam had asked about it over breakfast. “He said that he didn’t want to meet Jo. Said that he didn’t know if he’s responsible for what happened with Daniel Elkins.” Dean rolled his shoulders and listened to the joints pop. “But he’ll still come if we need him.”

“If _you_ need him,” Sam said.

“Come on,” Dean said. “It ain’t like that.”

“If you say so.” Combichrist came on and Sam turned the music up.

Jo led them through Minnesota, into Minneapolis, and into a neighborhood that followed the river and to a —

Dean gawked. He stared. He wiped his chin, just in case.

“That’s a Harrison Revival,” he said.

“That’s important, right?”

“I’m going to be useless,” Dean muttered. “Useless. I’m going to be hugging the balustrades. Wait. Shit. We’re posing as guests, aren’t we? This is the job. We’re staying in a haunted Harrison Revival castle. Pinch me, it’s Christmas.”

Dean did a happy dance right there in the street.

Sam stared at the sky. “Do something about him. Please.”

Dean slung his duffel over his shoulder and made his way along the rose lined walkway with a spring in his step. He grinned all the way through check-in.

“So you’re antiquing?” the desk clerk asked.

“Building contractor,” Dean said automatically. “I do renovations and restorations and this place is…amazing. Look at that stained glass. Sam. All this paneling you see? Hand-carved and made to measure, probably uniquely carved for this room.”

“I wish you’d come here earlier,” a woman said, attracted by the spectacle of Dean vocally admiring everything in the room. “I’m Susan Thompson.”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean said, and Jo glared at him. “So, the hotel passed down to you?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I mean what I said. I could have used an enthusiastic expert.”

“Insurance appraisal?” Dean asked.

“Real estate agent,” she said.

Dean’s heart sank. “Investment group?”

She nodded.

“I’m so sorry.” All Dean’s joy crumpled into a tight ball of lead.

“What does that mean?” Jo asked.

“It means she had to sell,” Dean said soberly. “And so this place is going to fall into the hands of a group of people who don’t see anything but numbers on a ledger. They could do about anything to the place. Even tear it down.”

“You three are probably our last guests,” she said. “Please allow me to upgrade your rooms.”

Their rooms weren’t suites, but they were large and featured stained-glass borders around the windows. They overlooked a garden with topiary bushes and a circled cross garden layout - Dean thought it matched the hotel perfectly.

“I’m afraid we only serve breakfast,” Susan said, from the doorway of Dean's room. “But in the morning we’ll have a buffet in the dining room.”

“That’s fine, Susan, I appreciate it. Can you tell me where I’ll find the finest burger in the city?”

Dean met with Sam and Jo down in the lobby, barely dodging two little girls giggling and running in the hall. They wore jumper dresses and ribbons in their hair, and Dean supposed many little girls didn’t dress that way any more.

“Okay, ready to go?” Dean asked.

“Let me give you the directions to Nana’s Kitchen, that’s where we’re headed,” Jo said.

They trotted down the steps but stopped when Jo spoke up. “Hold on,” Jo said. “Come look at this.”

Dean came back to look at the painted concrete urn Jo indicated.

“Hey now, hello there,” Dean said. “Quincunx.”

“A quincunx? Here?” Sam asked.

“No kidding, right? Who’d be carving hoodoo protection sigils into these? It’s old,” Jo said. “I wouldn't have noticed if the light hadn’t hit it. Somebody used it right, and not too long ago.”

The grooves were almost as dark as the black painted urn, but they were a ruddy brown.

“Somebody rubbed their blood in that,” Dean said. “Could have been covered by snow, maybe.”

“Let’s not hang around the entrance,” Jo said. “We said we were leaving to eat. Let’s eat.”

Dean cut in for the driver’s side, and Sam circled around to sit shotgun. “You sure got on with Susan, Dean. Jo thinks you should be our face.”

“Course she does. Look at me.”

“She means, you have the best rapport with Susan because you know all about her hotel.”

“Soon to be ex-hotel.” Dean looked up at the pointed towers and tall chimneys of the Hotel Thompson. Two little girls stood on the widow’s walk on the second floor. He waved at them, and they waved back.

Sam looked over his shoulder at the building. “Do you think it’s lonely, growing up in a place like this?”

“Maybe,” Dean said. “Probably not a lot of other kids as guests.”

“It’s kind of a neat place to live,” Sam said. “You sure like it.”

“It should be a treasure,” Dean grumbled. “I hate it when beautiful old buildings get sold out from under the people who love them, Sam.”

“We’re here to stop the haunting. Remember that,” Sam said.

Dean muttered _“yeah”_ as he followed Jo, who zipped through traffic like a silver dragonfly.

Nana's kitchen served burgers with the mushrooms and crumbled bacon stuffed inside, and they were so big even Dean cut his in half before trying to take a bite. 

“We’re kinda too late to hit the library, but Dean, I think you’ve got a really great reason to snoop around the place, so we’re gonna roll with that,” Jo said. “Anything you notice, call us so we can look it up. I’ll teach you the key to a hunter’s survival on our next trip.”

“Legwork?”

“You can never do too much legwork. I want to know about everyone who ever fell to ill-fortune in that building. And then where they’re buried,” Jo said. “And be careful, Dean. Carry salt always.”

“We still have some charm bags that Missouri had us make,” Sam said.

“Protection? Good. And every time you walk into a room, make a point of looking for the iron. Probably no call to use the salt shot here, so careful is key.”

Dean nodded and added more ketchup onto his fries. “You know where else we should look? Land records. Original blueprints. Do you think we can get to the office in time?”

“No way,” Jo said. “Call in a request to have the records pulled, we’ll look at them in the morning. Good thinking, Dean.”

“Just using what I know.”

“It’ll keep you alive, greenie. Hopefully next time Sam will be able to be the face, so you can come and research with me. I’d like to see how you get ahold of those records.”

Jo never stopped teaching them, and it surprised Dean to discover how consuming a lifestyle hunting was. From making your own bullets to shining a file clerk for private data, he was right: you didn’t come home from a day of hunting and put your work behind you.

_You will be loved_ , Castiel had said, and the phrase ran through his mind on the way back to the hotel.

*

Jo handed over the folder she’d packed with her from Nebraska. Sam glanced at the clippings, handed it to Dean, who looked through it.

“Just the last month?”

“That’s all,” Jo said. “Second death caught my eye, because the headline said second freak accident.”

“Victimology?” Dean asked. “One woman, one man, the woman a realtor, the man…hang on.”

“He saw it,” Jo said.

“Saw what?” Sam asked.

“Sure did. Here.” Dean handed the folder over.

Sam gave the clippings more interest. “Wait. Roman Investment Group bought the place. Joan Edison was the realtor who handled the sale of the hotel, and Larry Williams was here to inventory the hotel’s contents.”

“Joan Edison drowned in the hotel pool.” Jo poured herself some more grassy smelling tea. “But the autopsy details bruising on her back and shoulders. Larry Williams, who died here day before yesterday, somehow got his head twisted nearly all the way around.”

“And they were both here in connection with shutting the hotel down,” Sam said. “So maybe whoever’s working hoodoo is fighting to stay.”

“Okay, but who here looks like a root working hoodoo magician to you?” Dean asked.

“It could be anyone,” Sam said. 

“Okay, point taken,” Dean said. “So I guess I’m going to have to make talk with everybody, look out for clues, Nancy Drew it up while you guys read microfilm.”

*

Breakfast was served in a roll-out buffet table. Dean found warm pancakes, found his order of eggs over easy, and added sausage, butter, and syrup. He ignored Sam snickering over his precise layering of pancake, egg, and sausage for each forkful and ate, pointing out various details in the lounge, currently serving as a breakfast room. The coffee was good. Dean helped empty the pot, and leaned back with a full belly.

“Sam and I are going to the Basilica of Saint Mary,” Jo said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come and see it?”

“I’d really rather look around here. More my field, you know?”

“Then maybe we should see the Museum of Russian Art while we’re out,” Sam said. “Will you be all right for lunch?”

“Sure,” Dean said. “You two crazy kids go have fun.”

*

Dean really did want to look around at all the details of the place, and he smiled bashfully at Susan when she encountered him examining the wainscoting.

“I do wish I’d met you earlier,” Susan said.

Dean covered up his surprise with another smile. “Yeah?”

Susan looked down, and then back. “I mean, I grew up here but I never met anyone who sees it like you do.”

“I understand,” Dean said. “You don’t mind me poking around like this?”

“Tell you what,” Susan said. “Let me handle this, and then I’ll show you something that guests only get to glimpse.”

Dean waited up on the landing, looking at the urn on the occasional table. It had another etched quincunx inside, definitely treated with someone’s blood. Dean picked up the urn and looked closely, but all he could tell was that it was old, maybe stained right into the stoneware. He set the urn down and hugged the table as a little girl with curled blonde hair ran by, smiling at him. He smiled back, but the girl ran on up the servant’s stairs and out of sight.

Susan came back upstairs not long after, and beckoned him into a room marked PRIVATE.

This was the family apartments, he knew, but he hadn’t expected a shrine to dolls. There were easily a couple hundred on display on the built-in shelves, carefully dressed and painted.

“That is a lot of dolls.”

“They’re Grandma Rose’s toys,” the brown-haired little girl said. He smiled at her and the dollhouse she sat by.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Dean.”

“This is Tyler. Tyler, why are you sitting in here by yourself?”

Tyler shot a look at the dollhouse, and her answer was nearly a whisper. “Maggie’s being mean.”

“Well tell her I said she had to stop,” Susan said. “Would you show Dean your dollhouse?”

“It’s Grandma Rose’s dollhouse. We just get to play with it.”

“It’s really nice,” Dean said. “Is this the hotel?”

“It was originally the architect’s model,” Susan said. “Then it was converted to a dollhouse.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dean said. “Will you have room for it, where you’re moving?”

“Maggie doesn’t want us to,” Tyler said.

Susan ignored what must have been an old argument. “We can’t take it with us,” she said. “There’s no room.”

Tyler stared hard at the floor.

Dean circled around and crouched down to have a look. The inside was very detailed, complete with dolls in their places, except for one, a male who lay on the floor of the hotel lobby.

Dean picked the doll up and saw that its head had been twisted around.

His stomach turned to ice. He turned the doll over in his hands, forced himself to examine it.

“I see you broke your doll,” Dean said.

Tyler still stubbornly stared at the floor. “Maggie did it. She didn’t like the man.”

Something under the doll’s coat bent. Dean slipped a finger underneath the felt and pulled out a torn corner of a sheet of paper.

“Grandma Rose would get mad if she knew Maggie broke him,” Tyler said.

The paper bore a signature. Dean could make out the name Williams in the scrawl.

“Where’s Grandma Rose?” he asked.

“She’s upstairs in her room,” Tyler explained.

“Any chance I could visit?”

Susan shook her head, face closed off. “She’s quite sick.”

*

Sam and Jo brought back a bucket of chicken, a pair of six packs, and photocopied research.

“This haunting is weird,” Jo said.

“Really weird,” Sam agreed. “It doesn’t fit hauntings at all.”

Dean looked up from the papers. “You’re saying no one has died here, with the exception of the recent deaths, since 1938.”

“There’s no reports of haunting phenomena, and there should be. Hell, there aren’t even any made up stories about this place being haunted,” Jo said, and took a wing from out of the bucket.

“But two Vice Presidents have stayed in this hotel,” Sam said, “and there’s a battle to have the place declared a national historic site that was squashed by corporate lawyers. Buried ordinary citizens in paper and motions, basically. All the corporate lawyer dick moves.”

“You were going to become a lawyer,” Dean said.

“There’s lawyers, and then there’s lawyers,” Sam said. “I was going to tilt at windmills, not make rich assholes richer.”

“My little brother the hero,” Dean teased.

“Whatever,” Sam opened his second beer and scoffed. “On paper, this place shouldn’t be haunted.”

“Who died in 1938?” Dean asked.

“Ann-Marie Margaret Thompson.” Jo opened a can of Miller’s. “Accidental drowning in the hotel pool.”

“Seen it,” Dean said, around a bit of drumstick. “Art Nouveau glass house. It’s closed, but I could ask to have a look inside. Where’s she buried?”

“She’s not,” Jo said. “Her remains were cremated.”

“So we’ve got no ghosts,” Dean said. “But we do have sympathetic magic.”

Dean produced the torn corner of the page. “Can you read that?”

Sam and Jo leaned in.

“Says Williams,” Sam said. “Where’d you find this?”

“Tucked in the clothing of a doll in Tyler and Maggie’s dollhouse,” Dean said, and sipped his beer. “A doll that I found lying in the lobby of the hotel with its head twisted around.”

“Sympathetic magic,” Sam said. “Have you found the doer?”

“Nope. But when I showed Tyler the doll, she said that the dollhouse and all the toys belonged to Grandma Rose, who lives upstairs.”

“Did you talk to her?” Jo asked.

“I did not,” Dean said. “Apparently, she’s too sick for visitors.”

“That could mean about anything,” Jo said.

“I’d like to talk to her, but there’s still the staff and even Susan herself. I don’t get the vibe that she really wanted to sell, more like she had to, you know?”

Sam cracked another beer. Dean gave him a look. “Hey.”

“What.”

“You’re piling those a little high for a work night,” Dean said.

“I can handle it, Mom.”

“Unless you took a course in college, no you can’t.”

“It’s called Freshman year, Dean. Relax.”

Dean scoffed. “Fine, my little boy is a man, whatever. I’ll just torment you in the morning.”

“You boys can settle this without me, I’m sure,” Jo said, and made off with a paper plate full of chicken and potato wedges. “Be ready in the morning, Sam.”

“Night, Jo,” Dean said, and counted to ten before turning around on Sam. “What’s eating you?”

“Thinking about Max,” Sam said. “Thinking about what Ash said, about how lot of folks in the roadhouse would see me as something to hunt.”

“Come on, Sam.” Dean set his leg bone down. “You didn’t ask for this.”

“Did vampires?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “And it doesn’t matter, because they kill and eat people.”

“So what if you met a vampire who survived off animal blood?”

“They’re safe from me,” Dean said.

“So you think moral monsters aren’t monsters.”

“I guess,” Dean said with a shrug. “So your powers might have been given to you by a demon. You didn’t have a say in that, you were a baby. You live right. You help people. You fight evil. You’re not a monster, Sam.”

“How come I’m the one who went to Stanford and you’re the one that’s smart.”

“Building shit is hard. I don’t know,” Dean shrugged. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

*

Sam was hung over, of course, and he hogged the bathroom shared between their rooms with all his hurling and wishing for death. Dean actually had to go down to Jo’s room to borrow her shower. He came out dressed, clean-shaven, and wet-haired to meet Susan in the hallway, who looked so disappointed Dean rushed to explain himself. He wasn’t even sure why, but he found himself walking down to the breakfast room with her, launched in a conversation about the various woods used to panel the walls in the comfortable lounge. She’d found a reason to leave him alone at the breakfast buffet, but she had a little more light in her smile than Dean had seen there yesterday.

It felt a bit like his old life, Dean realized. The life where he spoke with authority on residential design and decoration instead of figuring out if the unseen killer stalking the halls was a spirit or a curse wielded by a person or housed in an object. He wished it was his old life, where he could see a pretty woman who maybe wanted some attention, a little escape, a nice night. Now he had to inspect the signs of stress and strain and wonder if a clenched jaw marked the addition of another revenge on a list.

This wasn’t his old life. It was a cover. A mask. A lie, just like a uniform costume and a fake badge. The thought soured Dean’s mood, so Jo plunked down right beside him and said, “What?”

“I’m lying to these people.”

“You have to lie.” Jo shrugged. “The truth is too crazy for them to believe, and you don't have time for that.”

That was pragmatic. Dean shrugged back. “Fine. What’s on the agenda?”

“We need to interview Rose,” Jo said. “You’ve talked to everyone else.”

“Gonna be hard to get to her,” Dean said. “I think I know where she is, but I need another look at the dollhouse.”

“Will you need to change the doll’s outfits?”

“Funny,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Actually the dolls kind of creep me out a bit.”

Jo gave a little shiver, and grinned. “All those sightless glass eyes.”

“Exactly. Sammy!” He greeted his brother just a little too loudly, cackled when Sam made a pained face.

Sam groaned. “I need grease.”

“Yes you do,” Dean agreed. “Hang on, I’ll see if I’ve got some Alka-Seltzer.”

Dean got up and walked through the lobby, where a chinless, hook-nosed man spoke to Susan. He kept walking past, on up the stairs, and he saw the curly haired girl looking down at the two of them with such a furious expression Dean stopped in his tracks.

Susan signed a document, and the guy in the suit signed it too, probably as a witness, and took the clipboard back.

“I've been meaning to ask. What sort of renovations are you planning?”

The man looked a little startled. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Roman Investment Group did an assessment and judged that it would be more profitable to demolish the hotel and build condominiums.”

Susan looked shaken. “I see.”

The back of Dean’s head burned. They were going to rip down a Harrison. There were maybe a dozen left in the country. Those dicks.

The little girl looked at him, curious.

He winked at her. “I’d hate them too, kid. Heck, I kinda already do.”

Maggie smiled at him and walked into the doll room.

*

Dean poked around his bags and found a packet of Alka-Seltzer in his shaving kit. He stuffed it in his pocket and debated leaving the salt behind, but kept it and a charm bag in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket. He spied a bottle of Advil on the bathroom counter and grabbed it, just in case Sam managed to hold his breakfast down.

He stared at his breath fogging in front of him, and his scalp prickled at the cold and its meaning. Slowly, he kept his gaze off the mirror and turned around.

Maggie stood there.

“Maggie, you shouldn’t just wander into people’s rooms,” Dean said. “You scared me.”

Maggie giggled and skipped out to the hall.

He followed, but her footsteps sounded up the servant’s stairs, out of bounds for hotel guests. He had a sick brother to tend, so he turned the other way and nearly ran into Tyler, who held up her hand for quiet.

Then she beckoned and Dean followed her into the doll room. “What’s up, Tyler?”

“Maggie’s being mean again.”

“Well didn’t your mom say she was supposed to stop?”

Tyler led him to the dollhouse. “She doesn’t really like grownups.”

“That’s because grownups don’t really remember what’s important any more.” Dean hunkered down next to the dollhouse.

“She likes you.”

“Aw,” Dean said, and then noticed where Tyler was looking, and followed her gaze.

A man in a suit hung from a ceiling lamp in one of the guest rooms, glasses askew.

Dean looked back. “Tyler, I want you to do me a really big favor, okay?”

Tyler nodded. “You can help?”

“I’m gonna try,” Dean said. “Can you go to the breakfast room and tell my friend Jo that I want to see her and Sam in the doll room, and I said she should bring her kit?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to play with the dollhouse a bit, and I’d like them to come play too.”

“Can I?”

“Bring them up here, Tyler, and you can help.”

“Okay.” Tyler left very quietly.

Dean stayed close to the dollhouse and examined it, and found what he was looking for on the corners of the roof - little crosses with dots on the end of the arms and at the center. A quincunx on each corner, the divots and grooves carefully scratched clean of blood.

He didn’t have a silver pin bathed in five blessed waters to draw his blood and fill the five-spots with the life force needed to charm the house. He should be running to help that lawyer, but the only advantage he had was surprise.

Footsteps sounded. Jo and Sam stepped inside, Jo bearing a canvas bag.

“Do you have a silver knife and holy water?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

“Give ‘em here,” Dean said, and Sam blinked. “No time. Sam. Room 218. Bust down the door if you have to. There’s a sleazy lawyer dying in there. Hanging. Go get him. Take this.” Dean threw Sam his protection charm.

Sam caught it and dashed off.

“What is it?” Jo asked.

“Tyler,” Dean said. “Where’s your sister?”

“I don’t have a sister,” Tyler said.

“Maggie’s not your sister?”

Tyler shook her head, and Dean felt ice in his belly. “She’s Grandma Rose’s sister.”

“Shit,” Jo said. “She was cremated.”

“No bones to burn,” Dean dipped the knife into the holy water and cut his arm, dipped the tip in the welling of blood and traced the quincunx on the dollhouse’s north corner roof.

“Help! I need some help up here!” Sam’s voice. He’d found the lawyer. Dean sidled along to the east corner, dipped the tip of his knife in the blood, and traced the quincunx. No time.

“Ghost or witch?” Jo asked.

“Ghost. Maggie’s a ghost,” Dean said.

“Who’s Maggie?”

“She’s my friend,” Tyler said. “But sometimes she’s mean.”

“Tyler, I’ve got a job for you,” Dean said. “Take this salt, and put it across the doorways and the windows, okay? Nice solid line across them all.” Dean had the south quincunx painted now, his blood thickening into soft garnet flakes and smears.

Tyler dropped a salt line across the door.

Jo found another sack of salt and started on the windows. “Tyler, how long has Maggie been playing with you?”

“About a month,” Tyler said. “She came after Grandma Rose got sick. I used to walk with Grandma Rose every day, and she’d paint the five spots in all the hidden places.”

“How did Grandma Rose get sick, Tyler?”

“She can’t walk or talk any more. And then Maggie came.”

“She must have been using the hoodoo to hold back her sister’s ghost,” Dean said.

“And then she couldn’t any more,” Jo said. She reached inside the duffel and retrieved an iron poker. “We’ve got to find her remains. Tyler, does Grandma Rose keep a locket of her sister’s hair?”

“I don’t think so,” Tyler said. “What’s happening?”

“Maggie’s really angry, Tyler, and she hurts people,” Dean said. “We’ve got to stop her from hurting more people. Mourning dolls! Is there a Maggie doll?”

Tyler nodded. “It’s in Grandma’s room.” she pointed up the stairs.

“I’ll get it.” Jo galloped up the stairs.

Dean could hear sirens wailing, headed toward the hotel. Jo’s boots thumped across the floor, then a loud crash and clatter sounded above.

Dean stood up, then crouched back down. “Have to stay here.”

Tyler grabbed his hand. “Maggie’s really mad.”

“I bet she would be,” Dean said. “Tyler, do you know what happened to Maggie?”

“She was mean,” Tyler said. “She was mean her whole life, and then she got drowned.”

“But she didn’t go on.”

“Maggie told me their papa did it.”

Nothing keeps a spirit moored like murder. “You knew Maggie was a ghost?”

Tyler nodded. “You’re the only other one who could see her, besides me and Grandma Rose. Maggie scares her.”

More thumping from upstairs, and then a clatter of boots. Jo had blood running down her face and a disheveled doll in her hands. She tossed it into the fire place—

“Pull the flue--that knob--pull it out,” Dean called, and all the windows broke to the sound of screaming of an enraged child. Dolls flew from the shelves, and Dean thought shit, we never salted the stairs.

Jo dumped salt on the doll, lunged for the duffel, doused the doll in firestarter, and tried to strike a match with shaking hands.

She broke the first head, dropped the box, and Tyler crawled over to grab one and the box, making it in one swift stroke.

She dropped the match on the doll, and it went up in orange light.

The screaming stopped. The sirens wailed. Jo scooped up the duffel and re-packed the knife, holy water, salt, iron, and lighter fluid, and jogged out of the room.

Tyler stared at the burning doll. “Will Maggie stay away now?”

“I think so, Tyler,” Dean said.

“Did you make her go away with magic?”

What the hell did he say? “Why do you say that?”

“Because Grandma Rose said it was magic. She said she’d teach me when I was old enough.”

“You’re not old enough yet, kid.”

“I will be,” Tyler said. “I’m going to be like you and your brother and Jo.”

Dean swallowed a burr in his throat.


	9. I Asked Myself About the Present:

Sam drove most of the way back. Dean didn’t mind his thumping rivethead music and the driving too fast, he didn’t care. He was helpless and angry and sick.

_I’m going to be just like you._

Like what he was _now_  was worth emulating. Like that little girl should admire what they do, look up to them, want to be like them, and it was his fault. He’d put that kid on the road his own father tried to take them off. That kid wasn’t going to grow up to build things. She was going to grow up to trucks, guns, beer in cans, lies, and danger. He’d see her in the roadhouse one day and fight to remember where he’d seen her face before and it would be his fault.

He carried that guilt in his stomach and didn’t have much room for food. Sam let him be, only talking to him to try and get him to eat something or stretch his legs, but Dean knew he wanted to know what had Dean shut up inside himself.

Now he understood why hunters lied so much, and the enlightenment kept him awake down the miles to Sioux Falls and back into the narrow bed on his side of the room, where he stared at the blue wall, fingers tracing over the pentagram carved on the top knob of the pine bedposts. He’d carved that in when he was nine and John had left them to work on a long job in Wyoming. Dean couldn’t remember why. Dean couldn’t remember if he touched it and thought, _I’m gonna be just like Dad._

It took a long time to sleep.

*

Jo sent him and Sam credit cards with the names William Nelson and Richard Haymes, with a note reminding them to buy suits and to max the cards quickly. Dean scowled and chucked his in the shallow drawer of his night table, but Sam slipped William Nelson’s card into one of the slots of his wallet with a shrug.

“Come on,” Dean said. “Don’t you think the man has enough money trouble?”

“Might come in handy,” he said. “That cash won’t last forever. You want to go spar?”

“No,” Dean said, but he changed into sweatpants anyway.

They fought hand to hand, and Sam called a halt after Dean had succeeded in disarming him in close combat five times. “Okay, enough. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You weren’t there,” Dean said. “You were off saving the lawyer.  Tyler told me that she’s going to become a hunter, like us.”

Sam considered. “She might. But probably not.”

“But what if she does?” Dean said.

“Look, keep an eye on her,” Sam said. “We’ll watch wherever she ends up. If anything supernatural happens, we’ll drop everything and go. Give her the stay in school speech, and if she doesn’t change her mind, you’ll still be there.”

Dean nodded. He knew that was all they could do. “I should have sent her out.”

“Maybe, but you can’t change the past.”

Dean shrugged and they walked out. Sam wove around black-edged clumps of snow that lingered in the shadows of the junkyard and sighed.

“What.”

“This thing with Tyler,” Sam said. “I mean--you ever think of having kids, Dean?”

“Who’d want to have kids with me?” Dean asked. “Wait. You and Jess?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We were going to wait, but we wanted them.”

“Maybe one day--”

“No,” Sam said. “We’ve gotta save the world first.”

*****

Castiel and Dean walked through the empty streets of a clean, glittering city adorned by tall trees,the fresh new green of spring leaves and the petrichor smell of rain.

“You got through the hunt in Minnesota without calling on me,” Castiel said. “You’re learning.”

“Yeah, well." Dean shrugged. "It was just a salt and burn. How’s your mojo?”

“I’m nearly at my full capacity,” Castiel said.

They walked across a perfectly green lawn and into a narrow trail under tall cedars. Ferns flourished in the soft earth, and Dean could breathe in the scent of the air forever.

“Is this where you’re hanging out?” Dean asked.

“I’ve been in Japan,” Castiel said. “The Sakura festivals are beginning there.”

“That’s, uh--”

“Cherry blossoms.”

“I bet that’s pretty,” Dean said, and tried a smile

“Tell me about the hunt, Dean,” Castiel said softly, and caught his hand as Dean started talking.

*****

Dean woke up with Castiel’s promise to look in on Tyler, and the tight band across his stomach eased. Maybe she’d be okay. Maybe she’d be safe. He felt better, knowing Castiel would help. He turned his head to the bed next to him, blinked, and sat up.

Sam had made the bed.

Sam never made the bed unless he’d changed the sheets. He’d sort of kick the blankets into place, or tease Dean for breaking down and making the bed for him.

Dean sat up and saw the note on top of the tidy blankets. He got out of bed and picked it up, reading Sam’s handwriting:

_Dean:_

_I had another vision. A yellow eyed demon told me that he had plans for me and all the children like me, but he made a mistake. I know where he is. I’m going to get him._

_I’ll call you._

_Sam_

Son of a bitch.

Dean got dressed in fresh clothes and went downstairs to find Bobby. He found the older man in the library, cordless phone held up by one shoulder while he paged through one of his books on monsters. “Think it’s a lamia. Garth, how do you always get the weird ones? Hang on.”

Bobby turned to Dean and laid his hand over the speaker. “What is it?”

“Bobby, Sam’s gone.”

“I know,” Bobby said. “He said he wanted to go into town and buy some supplies.”

“Did he take my car?”

Bobby rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “No, he took a Fiesta I had running pretty good. Ugly thing. Bondo and maroon, with one green quarter panel--”

“Did he grab anything from out of the car?” Dean yanked on his boots and stamped his feet to settle them.

“Not that I saw,” Bobby said. “What’s eating you?”

“Be right back.”

“Okay,” Bobby turned back to the phone. “Garth, I’m in a hurry. You need rosemary and salt--”

Dean went outside and popped the trunk. He already knew what he was going to find when he opened the warded box.

The Colt was gone.

Dean burst back into the kitchen as Bobby hung up the phone.

“Sam didn’t go for supplies, did he.” Bobby looked grim.

Dean shook his head and got his athletic bag packed with clothes from out of the closet. Sam’s was gone. “He went after the yellow-eyed demon.”

“Balls,” Bobby swore. “Alone?”

“He left this note.” Dean handed it over. "The Colt’s gone.”

Bobby nodded at him, but asked. “Do you know where he went?”

“Just what’s in the note,” Dean said. “Son of a bitch.”

“You’ve got no idea where you're going, boy,” Bobby said. “Go see Ash.”

“Ash might not want to help me find Sam,” Dean said. “He figured it out, about the demon and the fires.”

“Well, that _is_ what you get when you ask a genius to help you,” Bobby said. “Trust him to be sensible, all right? Now get moving.”

*

Dean made the drive to the Roadhouse in record time, in the peak hours of the afternoon. He exchanged a few handshakes, gave Ellen a hug, and looked for Jo.

“Where’s Jo?”

“Hunting,” Ellen said. “She’s in Duluth checking out murders on the full moon.”

“Right,” Dean said. “With that guy Rick.”

“Dean!” Ash popped up from behind the bar and handed him a can of PBR.

Dean couldn’t afford to turn down gestures of solidarity. He opened the can, gently crashed it into Ash’s, and drank. “How’s it going?”

Ash drank his can down in a series of deep swallows, thumped his chest, and belched. “All right. You keep Sam home for this visit?”

“Actually no,” Dean lowered his voice. “He got a bee in his bonnet over a vision and he took off alone to go chase it.”

Ash leaned his elbows on the bar counter. “What was he chasing?”

“Demons.”

“Greenwood, Mississippi,” Ash said promptly. “There’s demon activity there.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Not like Greenwood,” Ash said. “You probably ought to start there. I’ll look for weird deaths. You’re gonna run out of here with your tail on fire, aren’t you.”

“Yeah,” Dean said.

“Sit your ass down,” Ellen said. “I’ll make you something you can eat in the car. You can wait that long, at least.”

Dean didn’t want to stay at the Roadhouse, and Mississippi was days away for a lone driver, but Dean took the Impala southward. Ellen had made him a burger and fries, and she’d wrapped the burger so he could eat it one handed and not worry about special sauce on the seats.

“Cas,” Dean said, on a lonely stretch of road. “Sammy took off. He went after the yellow eyed demon, and I’m worried its a trap. I’m going to Greenwood, Mississippi because there’s signs of demon activity there, but I don’t know if that’s where I’m going to find Sam. “

“Can you sleep in the back of the car?” Castiel asked. “I can drive for a shift.”

Dean smiled in relief. “I could use some backup, Cas. Thanks.”

*

Castiel drove while Dean blessed jar after jar of holy water. He looked up from the sixth after he dropped his last rosary inside, and looked at the man in the driver’s seat, driving to Destiny's Child.

“Cas. Is this supposed to happen?”

“This never happened,” Castiel said. “But it might be an adaptation to force you to Greenwood.”

“Because we went there,” Dean said.

Castiel guided the Impala around a tight curve and let the steering spin back under his loose touch. “Yes. You learn something vital there.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what it is.”

“I can’t, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Castiel handled arm-strong steering with ease. Maybe he learned to drive in this car. The other Impala. The one the other him named Baby and rebuilt from scratch.

“But it has to do with us stopping the apocalypse.”

“It’s an important step,” Castiel agreed. “Please don’t ask me any more, Dean.”

“Okay. You gonna fly off when you get me to Greenwood?”

“There’s a lot of demon activity there,” Castiel said.

Why can’t you stay? Dean thought, and closed his mouth on saying it.

Castiel glanced away from the road, towards Dean. “I will be close by,” he promised. “Demons can perceive my nature. I could just walk through Greenwood and scare them all off, and you’d be no closer to solving the mystery of your lives.”

“All right,” Dean said. “But can they sense you through walls?”

“You want to spend time with me,” Castiel said.

“It sounds so needy girlfriend when you put it that way,” Dean grumbled. "I'm just on edge. He shouldn't have gone alone."

“I can stay with you, Dean. I’ll still want to patrol but I will stay with you.”

Dean had his own computer. It was an old one of Bobby’s: boxy, heavy, and thick, but it got email and you could websurf on it if you practiced meditation at the same time.

He sat at the little table of number 17 in Johnny’s Slumber Spot (“Outdoor pool, cable, continental breakfast buffet”). It had two beds that looked lumpy, and Dean eyed the ceiling in the tiny bathroom with suspicion. It smelled like fresh paint.

“That better not be mold under there,” Dean said

“It’s water damage, I think. I don’t sense life.”

“I wish I could renovate these places. I wish the owners could afford it,” Dean sighed.

The laptop chirped. Castiel stepped back and let Dean go to the computer, checking the mail.

It was from Ash. _“Sean Owen. Threw himself from the top floor balcony of the award winning condo he designed. Autopsy report attached. See also Facebook screen shots.”_

The screenshots were first. They were from Tracey Owen, Sean’s sister, explaining that she thought he was on drugs because he kept claiming he saw black dogs with huge fangs everywhere before he died.

Dean barely scanned Ash’s copy of the medical examiner’s report before he said. “Cas, check this out.”

Castiel looked at the Facebook post. “Black Dogs.”

“Black Dogs in an area with demon activity,” Dean said. “Now look at this. Victim took a dive off a twelve story window, you figure cause of death would be blunt force trauma. Which it was.”

“This report details lacerations and animal bites, suffered perimortem,” Castiel said. “Bad enough that the victim would probably had died from the blood loss.”

“So we’re not really talking about actual Black Dogs, are we.”

“I’m afraid not, Dean,” Castiel said. “It’s more likely to be—”

“A Hellhound on his trail,” Dean said. “Come to drag the victim into hell. This guy’s got a Wikipedia page,” Dean said. “And guess what - his rise to architectural prominence was meteoric. He came from out of nowhere ten years ago.”

“Meteors fall. I object to the metaphor. It’s sloppy.”

“Well I’m just reading the page, Mr. Lit Critic.” Dean said. “I’m doing my legwork, like a good hunter, waiting on Ash to find out if anyone else has been sighting black dogs. Huh. Says that Owen worked as a bartender in a saloon called Lloyd’s after he graduated and couldn’t find work.”

“So you have an address?”

“I bet they won’t be on Yelp.” Dean whooped as his email chimed.

“Ash says there was another complaint to animal control. By Dr. Sylvia Turnbull—apparently she’s head of surgery at a local hospital. I’ve got an address.”

*****

It had occurred to Dean that Dr. Turnbull could live in one of those gated communities, but instead she lived in a perfectly enormous single story house with a creek in the back yard.

A Black woman in a maid uniform answered the door. She looked at Dean, then at Castiel, and gave them a neutral, polite “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Ma’am,” Dean smiled. “I’m just doing a follow up. Dr. Sylvia Turnbull reported seeing a black dog in the neighborhood, and I’m wondering if she saw it again.”

“You with that other young man came here earlier?”

“Er, about yea high—”Dean indicated a height well over his own 6’1”—”Needs a haircut, kind of puppy dog eyes?”

“That’s him. You two sound alike. Northern.”

“Yeah, we’re both on quality and satisfaction,” Dean said. “So the doctor didn’t see that dog again?”

“I don’t think she did,” the woman said. “Sight of that dog scared her to death. She told me that she was going to check in for a few days at a nice hotel downtown, treat herself to a day at the spa, and I doubt she’ll see any dogs there.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Have a nice day.” Dean smiled and turned to trot down the steps.

He rolled down all the windows on the Impala before he got in, and the black leather felt like it was going to melt his ass. His bottle of water was warm, but he drank it anyway. “Sam’s here, at least. Running down the same leads.”

“We will find him, Dean.” Castiel didn’t sweat. Didn’t even look hot, on a day that had Dean wishing for a cool shower and a cold beer.

“Probably on the same trail. How many nice hotels can there be?” Dean drank the last of his water. He couldn’t ever live in the South.  He’d die.

“I will look,” Castiel said, and vanished.

Dean started counting: _one, two thr—_

Castiel looked perfectly grim. “I found her.”

“How do we get past all the staff?”

Castiel pushed down the button locks and pulled the keys from the ignition. “Take my hand,” he said, and--

Dean stood in what was once a luxurious, but cozy hotel suite, blessedly cool with climate control, now reeking with and soaked in blood. The body of Dr. Turnbull had been rent by claws, torn by fangs. She’d had fingers bitten right off.

“No one heard her scream?” Dean asked, and then heard how damp his voice sounded. He listened for neighboring sounds, traffic outside.

Nothing.

“Someone will come, sooner or later,” Castiel said. “I just wanted you to see.”

Dean kept his hands in his pockets and his feet out of the blood. “We’re one step behind,” Dean said. “There could be more of these. How do we find out if there’s more?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, crouching over the body. “We should go.”

Castiel wrapped his hand around Dean’s knee, and--

They were back in Dean’s hotel room. The AC unit hummed noisily, and the scent of blood was swiftly replaced by pine cleaner and whatever they used to deodorize the carpet.

“Dude, my car!”

“I will fetch it,” Castiel said. “Staff was coming to investigate. We had to leave quickly.”

Castiel vanished again. Dean flopped into his seat in front of the computer and sent another email to Ash: “One step behind. Doctor is dead. Sam’s here somewhere. Going to check out Lloyd’s bar. Is there a connection to Dr. Turnbull and Lloyd’s Bar?”

Ash sent back a one line reply - “You should find Sam.”

Dean tried calling Sam’s cell again, counting the rings. One. Two.

“Dean? Dean!” Sam said. “Where are you?”

*

“Cas, I’m in the parking lot,” Dean said. He moved fast and bounced on his toes waiting for the Impala. “Sam called and he’s at the Crossroads Inn. It’s just up the road. I’m walking, it’s just half a mile west of here I think—”

The Impala pulled up beside him. Dean slipped into the passenger seat. “Sam sounded scared, Cas. I mean, really shaken up.”

“We’ll get him,” Castiel promised, and made the turn into the Crossroads Inn (“Best deals in town!”) and Dean all but leapt out of the car before Castiel had even gotten it parked.

“Dean,” Castiel pointed at a room with shut windows and a patio fenced by ornamental cinderblock. “He’s in there.”

Dean hooked around and trotted to the fence, vaulting over it easily. “Sam!”

Then he noticed the blood on the doorknob, twisting as the door opened.

Sam was a sight. He had a long scratch down his face. His knuckles were bruised. And the front of his shirt and jeans were smeared with blood.

“Sam!” Dean said. “Cas…”

“It’s not mine,” Sam said. “I don’t…hurt anywhere.”

“Sam what did you do?”

“I saw him, Dean. I had a vision. I saw the yellow-eyed demon. I knew he’d be here. I had to kill him. But I don’t remember—I don’t remember anything after seeing Meg in that bar—”

“Who’s Meg?”

“Met her when I went on a burger run in Saginaw,” Sam said. “She said she was going to Chicago, but she was here… why was she here?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean turned around.

Castiel had been searching the room, opening drawers, inspecting bags. Dean had heard him but paid it no mind, listening to Sam explain.

“What are you looking for?”

“The Colt, Dean. It’s gone. And I found this.”

Castiel held up his fingers. Yellow powder coated them.

“Sulfur,” Castiel explained. “Sam was possessed.”

Sam shook. “I’m going to be sick.”

Dean rinsed the wastepaper basket after Sam had his Silkwood shower. He carefully folded and bagged Sam’s bloody clothes, and looked for everything that belonged to Sam so he could pack it up and get it out of there. Sam sat on the far side of the bed, flinched away from Castiel’s hands.

“What’s going on?” Dean asked.

“Dean.” Castiel turned pleading eyes on Dean. “I would not judge Sam as I judged Colleen Miller. She was responsible for her actions. Sam was not.”

“Well of course not,” Dean said, and looked to Sam. “Sam, you didn’t do it.”

“But I did,” Sam said. “My body did. What did I do?”

“Come on, man, there’s no time for this,” Dean said. “We’re on cleanup. Let’s go find that car you borrowed from Bobby.”

The Fiesta was in the parking lot. There was a smear of blood on the steering wheel. The opened door released a reek of rotten eggs and cigarette smoke.

“Pull the plates,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice broke. Dean looked at him, and then where he pointed.

“Shit.”

There was a bloody knife and a blood-stained brass bowl dropped in the backseat.

“Grab those,” Dean ordered. “We’re getting out of here.”

Dean circled around to the passenger side, and spotted the corner of white paper just under the driver’s seat. He leaned over to grab it, and muttered, “yeah, yeah, I get it already.”

It was a receipt for Lloyd’s Bar.

“Time to retrace your steps, Sammy.” Dean stood up. “Where’s Cas?”

“He left.”

“Why?”

“Think I—”

“Drove him off?”

“Yeah.”

“Well — don’t worry about that now.” Dean held a hand out. Sam bent his head and let Dean steer him by the shoulder to the Impala. “Got a lead that’s been beating me over the head ever since I got here. You remember a place called Lloyd’s Bar?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “That’s where Meg was.”

*****

Lloyd’s Bar was a country saloon out on a crossroads Dean bet marked the border between Lloyd’s and two or three dry counties, from the size of the parking lot. It didn’t have much in the way of ambiance, unless you liked shabby, and the sign advertised “Off-sales available.”

Patches of yellow blooms caught his eye, and Dean parked by the tower holding a water cistern on what Dean guessed was on the dry side of the line.

“That what I think it is?”

Sam didn’t answer. He stared at his hands numbly, his lower lip bitten bloody.

“Hey! Ground control to Major Tom!” Dean snapped.

Sam looked up, blinking.

“Don’t go all Lady MacBeth on me, man, we’ve got a case to work. Chin up. Out of the car.”

Sam got out and followed.

The interior of Lloyd’s Bar stood apart from other holes in the wall because the decorating scheme was centered around Robert Johnson, and Dean barely suppressed the urge to smack himself in the head. Of course. Robert Johnson, who wrote about making a crossroads deal, his music full of occult and references to American folk magic, the song Hellhound on my Trail…

Dean shivered and remembered the meeting of dirt roads just outside.

“You. Out,” the bartender pointed at them.

“I’m sorry?” Dean asked.

“Not you.” The man shifted a bit, pointing at Sam. “Him. He’s banned.”

“This guy?” Dean’s eyes popped. He pointed at Sam.

The bartender stopped wiping the counter in front of him and planted both hands on it. “Yeah, that guy. Fucking frat boy came in here, piss drunk and chain-smoking—”

“This guy.” Dean couldn’t help the incredulity.

“He’s out of here before I count five.”

“Sam, go wait in the car.” Dean patted his shoulder. Sam turned around and slouched out.

Dean turned his most charming, personable smile on the bartender. “I’m really sorry. He’s my brother, and he couldn’t remember anything—”

“Black-out drunk, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.” Dean’s stomach roiled with the lie, but he kept his face sober and concerned.

“Your brother’s got a problem. Starting with the credit card he gave for his tab was denied.”

“Shit.” Dean got his wallet out. He’d refilled it from the athletic bag this morning. “How much?”

“Seventy bucks.”

Dean counted out five twenties. He wove through the forest of tables with upturned chairs and set it on the bar. “I am so sorry,” he said. “Ever since college, he’s been…I want him to get help. Will you tell me what he did?”

The man pocketed the money. “Drunk off his ass, he wandered around here and asked people what they wanted. Like if they could make a wish and have something for the next ten years, what would it be? Bothered everybody with that question.”

“Are you Lloyd?”

“I’m Lloyd and this is my bar,” Lloyd agreed. He looked like a dissolute ex-motorhead fan, with his own tribute to Lemmy Kilmister on his face.

“Lloyd, I’m Dean, and can you tell me, did anyone take him seriously?”

“Darla,” he said, promptly. “She’s a real pretty girl with big dreams stuck in a flyspeck town with a no-good boyfriend. I ought to call the cops just because of that.”

“Sorry, because of what?”

Lloyd shifted backwards, fighting indecision. Dean kept up the attentive, slightly worried look. “He got to talking to Darla, and she told him how she wanted to be a star.”

“Like a movie star?”

“She’s a singer, plays the guitar, writes songs. She’ll tell anyone who’ll listen she writes a song every single day, just like Dolly Parton.”

“Country singer?”

Lloyd shook his head. “Blues. This is the birthplace of the Mississippi Delta blues. She plays the blues, sings the blues, weeps the blues.”

Dean winced. “And the blues only make other people rich.”

Lloyd cocked his fingers at Dean. “Truth. Your brother there started filling her with talk. Like he could make it happen. As if a record producer would look like a frat boy. But she believed it.”

“And then what happened?”

“He took her outside,” Lloyd said. “Took her outside and stood her in the middle of that crossroads out there. That’s where they were when Darren got wind of Darla outside with a strange man, and burst out there to where they were kissing.”

“Shit.”

“And your brother—Darren’s a mean drunk and a useless piece of shit, far as I’m concerned. Darla’s been trying to save to make a demo ever since he met her, but he’s a money pit.” Lloyd picked up a glass and wiped it dry, put it away.

Bartenders didn’t get paid to stand around, Dean thought to himself. Lloyd went on. “Any time she gets a gig anywhere but here he finds a way to ruin it. She’s trying to crawl out of the Delta, but he drags her back in.”

“Sounds like a scumbag.”

“Yeah, well. That scumbag’s in the hospital,” Lloyd said. “Your frat boy brother damn near beat him to death out on that crossroad, laughing.”

“God help me,” Dean said.

“And I’d get him locked up in whatever rehab you found will take him,” Lloyd said. “He damn near killed Darren. That’s no kind of drunk anyone wants anywhere.”

“Thank you, Lloyd,” Dean said. “I have to get him help. I will if I have to tie him hand and foot,” Dean promised. “I hope Darla turns out alright. Wouldn’t it be a kick if she did wind up famous? One of Lloyd’s own.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Lloyd said. “One of my old employees became a famous architect. His cousin’s a fancy surgeon.”

Dean barely kept himself from flinching. “Well, good luck to her. And thanks. You’ve been a real help.”


	10. How Wide, How Deep, How Much is Mine to Keep

Sam stood about six feet away from the Impala, waiting for Dean to come out of the bar. Dean stopped long enough to pick one of the flowers that bordered the crossroads and hold it up.

“Okay, what is that?” Dean asked.

Sam peered. “Yarrow.”

“That’s a magical plant, right?”

Sam gave him a look. “You know this, Dean. It’s used in summoning rituals.”

“And crossroads?”

“You summon the devil at the crossroads to make a deal. Fame, money, love, whatever, in exchange for your soul.” Sam scratched at his thighs through the thick denim of his jeans.

“I was hoping it could be something other than that.” Dean opened the driver’s side door of the Impala and leaned against the roof.

Sam laughed bitterly and shifted his weight, taking one reluctant step toward the car. “So what did I do to get banned out of a dive like that?”

“Think you were possessed, Sam.”

He got inside the car and Sam wrenched the passenger side door open. “What?”

Dean waited until Sam slid inside the car and shut the door. “And I think whoever possessed you did a deal with a girl, and when the girl’s boyfriend didn’t like you sealing the deal with a kiss—”

“I bought someone’s _soul_?”

“The demon who was possessing you,” Dean said, “Damn near beat the girl’s boyfriend to death.”

Sam looked away. “I nearly killed somebody.”

“You didn’t,” Dean put the car in reverse and steered it away from the bar. “Whoever hitched your body for a ride nearly killed somebody.”

“Wearing my skin,” Sam said miserably. “What if this is the plan, Dean? What if we’re all chosen to be possessed by demons?”

“We don’t know what the plan is, Sam.”

“I can’t fight this, Dean,” Sam whispered. “I can’t.”

“There’s a way, Sammy,” Dean urged, and signaled to turn left on a paved road back to town.

“What could we possibly do? I’m already damned. Already judged.”

_Where was this coming from?_ “Is this about Cas?”

“I can’t face him, Dean, I can’t, not with the things I’ve done,” Sam choked.

“You didn’t do it, Sam,” Dean said.

“As good as,” Sam said. “You saw him with Colleen. You saw.”

“He wouldn’t do that to you.”

“He’ll strike me down,” Sam said. “Please don’t call him, Dean.”

“Okay. I won’t,” Dean promised.

Sam fidgeted all the way back to the lot of Johnny’s Slumber Spot. He was out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop.

“You’re jumpy.”

“Dean, you just told me a demon was using me for a zoot suit. How am I supposed to feel?”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Let’s get some rest, okay? We can figure this out. Do you mind if I go pick up some burgers? I might have skipped lunch.”

“I’ll get them,” Sam said. “I could use the walk.”

With Sam gone down the road to get food, Dean checked the room for signs of another’s presence. A chambermaid had been there - the beds were made, the towels replaced, and the bathroom smelled like pine cleaner. Dean looked up at the water stained and painted over corner of the bathroom ceiling, and said, “Cas. Don’t come-”

“Is Sam all right?” Castiel asked, and Dean spun around.

“I said don’t come. Sam’s really freaked out, but who wouldn’t be?”

“Those who survive demonic possession often become drug addicts or engage in other destructive behavior,” Castiel said. “It’s a painful thing to go through. If there’s anything I can do to help--”

“He’s afraid of you right now, and I don’t think he could handle seeing you just at the moment,” Dean said.

Castiel’s shoulders slumped. “I wouldn’t hurt him, Dean.”

“I know. And he does too, just give him a little time to calm down and he’ll figure that out.”

“All right,” Castiel said. “I’m going to continue to watch the police. I suspect one of the officers suspects that the crime scene in Dr. Turnbull’s hotel suite isn’t some exotic serial killer or whatever nonsense they’re coming up with now.”

“Serial killer?”

“Apparently this isn’t the first time they’ve found remains like this,” Castiel said. “I’ll tell you if I find anything interesting.”

Dean nodded, and Castiel gave him a smile before he vanished to the sound of his wings.

Sam carried the paper sack full of burgers inside a few minutes later, and looked out the window while Dean set down his burger and two orders of fries--

“You gotta eat,” Dean said.

“Not hungry.”

“Okay.” Dean tucked into his bacon cheeseburger and Sam didn’t touch a bite beyond half a french fry.

He stared at the other half for a minute, then said, “I think this is what you have to do, Dean.”

“What?”

Sam tossed the fry back onto the heap. “I think you have to kill me.”

“Come on, no way!”

“It’s what fits!” Sam said. “The nursery fire that killed Mom, the powers, the unfit fathers, and now — what, I’m making deals for the prince of darkness and half killing people while I laugh? I’m going darkside, man, and you stop it.”

“No,” Dean said. “That’s not what Cas said. He said I have to be there for you, Sammy.”

“He could have been lying.”

Dean washed the last bite down with syrupy fountain Coke. “He promised. He would tell me the truth, or tell me he couldn’t say.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam got up from the table.

“I’m telling you, Sammy, we’re in this together. What happened wasn’t your fault.” Dean took a big bite of his burger and talked with his mouth full. “Now we’re going to settle down and figure this out. You came here because of a dream you had with the yellow-eyed demon, and you came with the Colt, and now the Colt’s gone.”

“My fault.”

Dean took another a swig of Coke. “You got conned, Sam, that’s all. We just should have thought of it, we’ve got a weapon they say can kill anything, of course they want it neutralized.” He dipped three fries in ketchup and stuffed them in his mouth. “It’s what I would do if I was an evil overlord.”

Sam quit pacing by the bed. “You know what I’d do?”

“What?”

“Keep the angel nuke at bay while I steal your car and finish my work,” Sam said.

“What?” Dean asked, and then a horrible pain burst across his skull.

*****

Dean could have gone through life without knowing for sure what the carpet in Room 17 of Johnny’s Slumber Spot smelled like, but he woke up face-first in it.

He levered himself to his knees and peered at the gray toned light. Dawn, or near to. He needed to vomit, and his head hurt, like the worst migraine he’d ever had.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice slurred. “Cas, I need you.”

Wingbeats. Arms around him, and a wave of nausea rose as Castiel tilted his head back to lean against the angel’s chest. The air swept close and cool over his face, the light fuzzy in some places, bright in others.

Castiel held him up and drifted cool fingers across his forehead. “Your brain is bleeding,” Castiel said. “You’re lucky you woke up.”

His head hurt something awful. His vision fuzzed again. “Cas.”

“I’m here.”

“Cas. Sam’s possessed.”

“I know,” Castiel soothed, and the prickly cold-and-hot feeling bloomed over his face, gathered at the crown of his head.

“You know?” Dean couldn’t think straight. Every soft touch in his life was on him again, and Castiel curled tight around him. It came from Castiel, his healing. It felt so good.

“He couldn’t take your car,” Castiel said. “Even retreated as far as it could inside your brother, the protections made him uncomfortable.”

Dean remembered the scratching and fidgeting. “Can you track him?”

“Not now. He’s warded against me.”

“That same trick you use to hide from other angels?”

“Many demons who rise high in the ranks spent their mortal lives as witches,” Castiel said.

“Come on, witches?” Dean sat up, and the fuzziness faded from his vision like invisible curtains parting. “Dance around the maypole, eight parties a year?”

“Wiccans are not witches in the sense that I mean. Witches make a pact with a devil and sell their souls for magic.” Castiel got to his feet and offered Dean a hand up. “Never trust a witch, Dean. Go to root workers and hoodoo priests if you need charms and protections.”

“Got it,” Dean said. “Actually, I know one.”

“Missouri Moseley,” Castiel confirmed. “Her sight is strong. I can’t go near her.”

“Why not?” Dean took Castiel’s hand and the angel stood firm while he levered himself up.

“She can see my true visage. The sight would burn her. I wouldn’t like that to happen. She’s a nice woman.”

Dean found his feet and rubbed at his ear, stared at the flakes of blood on his fingers. “I was bleeding out the ear?”

“I believe it’s called a subdural hematoma,” Castiel said. “I’ve healed you, but I should drive first.”

Dean won’t argue with that. He’s healed, but … hungry. Nothing here but stale burgers. “I need breakfast. Do you know where to find Sam?”

“I believe he’s headed back north,” Castiel said.

“You know where?”

“I’m not certain.”

Dean eyed the angel. “Sam was afraid of you.”

“That was the demon. Who rightfully fears me. Though I would not have smote it.”

“Why not?”

“Smiting kills the vessel,” Castiel said. “Sam must live.”

“Wonder if the demon knows about GPS.”

He unfolded his computer to find out.

“Lucky, lucky me.” Dean watched Sam’s dot drive into Illinois. “The demon drives like my brother.”

Dean closed the laptop, grabbed the last of his stuff, and took it out to the car, where Castiel waited with the engine idle.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything in the back is intact.” Castiel handed over a small sheaf of cash. “You’ve still got money.”

“Yeah, well. I could spend it if I really tried,” Dean said. “But then what would I do?”

“I could get you more,” Castiel said.

“Let’s try not to rob the banks again, okay?”

“After what they do in 2008,” Castiel said, “I don’t think you’ll blame me.”

Castiel couldn’t say fuck all about Sam’s lead foot. He had one himself, and a stretch of open road beckoned the angel to put the pedal to the floor and nod in time to Dr. Dre. Dean drove at a more law abiding pace, but he had to admire the angel’s ability to push the Impala into high speed feats Dean would have never dreamed the vehicle capable.

They stopped in a Biggerson’s for a meal. Castiel had coffee, Dean the chubby chicken club sandwich, with salad, because Dean knew Castiel would order a pie and then watch Dean eat it with that weird, pleased smile on his face.

“Why are you so set on making sure I eat pie.”

“Because you love pie, Dean. It’s your favorite.”

“I do,” Dean admitted. “It is.”

“And I never forget to get the pie,” Castiel said. “Sam forgets.”

“So you remember the pie for the other me,” Dean said.

“Yes. I tried to get pie in Twin Peaks once.” Castiel’s smile faltered. “But it wasn’t a real place.”

“They were supposed to have the best cherry pie Agent Dale Cooper ever tasted.”

“I wanted to get you some,” Castiel said, and he looked sad.

“Hey now,” Dean said. “Buck up. There are a million diners in this country. One of them is bound to have the perfect cherry pie. You’ll find it.”

Castiel nodded and looked hopeful again.

*

Dean charmed the waitress into giving him the wifi password and Sam was headed straight up the middle of Wisconsin, driving to beat the devil.

“Now what’s he doing up there?” Dean wondered, but he got his phone out and dialed the Roadhouse.

“Harvelle’s,” Ellen answered.

“Hey Ellen, it’s Dean.”

“Dean! You stopping by?”

“Maybe in a day or two,” Dean said. “Was just wondering if you heard of anything hinky up in Wisconsin, Minnesota, hell, Canada for that matter.”

“Jo’s in Duluth, remember?” Ellen said.

The hair on the back of Dean’s neck rose. “Yeah?” Dean asked. “I could really use some backup. Where can I find them?”

“You’re not with Sam?”

“No, Sam and I split up, trying to cover more ground on this thing. Demon. Did he call you too?”

“Sure did, a couple of hours ago. Jo’s at The Last Stop fishing hole, dockside bar.”

“I can find it,” Dean said. “And Rick?”

“Give Rick a call first, but find him on 28th and Oakes in Superior.”

“Will do, Ellen, Thanks.” Dean clicked his phone shut. “Cas, you drive.”

“My father won’t grant your prayers, Dean.” Castiel said, as the Impala flew up I-53, nearly at the point where it and I-2 would become one.

“Reading my thoughts again?”

“Prayers are especially loud thoughts,” Castiel said. “We won’t be stopped and if we are—”

Lights spun red and blue and a siren chirped just in time. Castiel rolled his eyes and turned down Public Enemy.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel said. He pulled over and rolled to a stop, rolled the window down, and waited. “And relax.”

“License and registration, please.”

Castiel took a laminated card out of his pocket and put it in the officer’s hand, and blue light flashed.

“Be more careful next time,” the officer said. “This is a nice looking old car, treat it gentle.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll be careful,” Castiel said, and he was well on his way to 85 before the police cruiser was out of sight.

“What did you - you full on Obi Wan-ed him!”

“I don’t like to do it,” Castiel sighed. “Humans paid a lot for free will. It seems unfair to bypass it.”

Dean shook his head. “Cas, sometimes you scare me.”

“I would never hurt you, Dean,” Castiel said. “Never.”

“I know,” Dean said.

“And we’re getting too close,” Castiel said. “The demon possessing your brother will be able to sense me, if it is as powerful as I suspect it is.”

“So I’m driving,” Dean said.

“You’re driving,” Castiel agreed. “If you need me, I will come.”

Castiel pulled onto the side of the highway and vanished.

*

Rick was dead. Dean could smell that as soon as he picked the lock. But he couldn’t just turn around and leave. Somewhere in the place, he’d find a computer controlling the video surveillance he found all over the place.

Said computer wasn’t all that far away from Rick’s body, beat up, stabbed, throat cut, the blood pooled in a glass bowl. What this demon did with bowls of blood, he didn’t really want to know. Dean re-wound the footage, and watched Sam stalk into Rick’s house and slit his throat in the very room, emptying his blood into the bowl. Then Sam held it up and—talked? Talked, pausing to listen for a response. Then he set the bowl down on the desk and dropped his bloody clothes on the floor, changing into fresh ones before strolling out the the house and climbing inside a fairly modern looking Mustang.

Dean pursed his lips in thought for a moment, and then kicked the computer chassis open. He found two hard drives, and he yanked them both out, retracing his brother’s steps to find the bloody clothes he discarded.

He had to hurry. God knows what the demon inside Sam had done to Jo.

*

The sight inside the Last Stop didn’t fill him with hope, but he’d gotten there before--

Sam had Jo tied to a piling with a knife to her throat, breathing hard and sweating. Jo was still dressed. Her face was bruised, but Dean couldn’t see any blood.

“Sam,” Dean said. “Jo’s still okay. You can let her go.”

“I begged you to stop me, Dean!” Sam screamed.

“Come on, Sam, put the knife down.”

“I told you! I can’t control it! Shoot me, Dean!”

Jo straightened two of her fingers tied behind the pillar, out of Sam’s sight, and Dean thought, One for yes, two for no.

Jo was signaling no.

Something about this was a lie.

“I can’t kill you, Sammy!” Dean shouted, and then softer, “Don’t make me.”

“You’d let this monster stay in me, Dean? You’d let Jo die so you wouldn’t have to be alone? Please!” Sam stepped away from Jo, arms spread wide. “Please.”

Dean reached behind him, as if he had a gun stuffed down the back of his pants. He drew fast and shot, squeezing the trigger over and over.

Sam howled. Dean squeezed until the holy water ran out, chased him as he dove out a window to get away.

Dean rushed to Jo and got her un-gagged. “You got another one of those handy?”

“Just let me get you out of this and you can have the super-soaker.”

“You know the way to my heart, Dean.”

“Sure do,” Dean agreed. “Come on.”

*

Naturally, Sam wouldn’t go running around in the open. Dean and Jo covered each other’s backs as they cleared every shadow, coil of rope, and fishing boat bow they passed.

“Hide and go seek with guns,” Dean muttered.

“My favorite,” Jo agreed.

“Only not. What do you think, he go in there?” Dean pointed toward a dark warehouse just in the distance. Probably it was used for boat repairs.

“Lots of cover, dark,” Jo said. “You go high ready. I’ll go low. Did Sam have a gun?”

“I don’t know,” Dean whispered. “Assume yes.”

“We should call Rick for backup.”

“Too late.”

“Fuck,” Jo swore. “A possessed hunter. Fuckin’ nightmare. Only lucky it picked a greenie like Sam.”

“Let’s try to pin it,” Dean said.

They slipped inside the warehouse and split up.

“So who are you?” Dean shouted, to cover Jo’s retreat.

“Got lots of names,” the demon said in Sam’s voice. A clatter sounded to his left, and he pointed his weapon at it before he realized it was a feint.

Dean faded back into a shadow, watching for movement. “But you’re the one, aren’t you, who came after me in Milwaukee?”

“The same, bright boy. That was a nice meatsuit you and your exorcist chased me out of. I like the ladies. Your little Jo would have been perfect. Half the hunters in the flyovers probably dying to get a piece of that tight little—”

“Okay, enough,” Dean said. “Why didn’t you kill me? You had a dozen chances.”

“I wanted to see if I could push you into killing your own brother,” the voice taunted. “Just for fun. But I think you’re going to die now, Dean. You, and every other hunter I can find.”

Over there. Dean crouched and scrambled for the cover of a boat hull. “So that’s your game?”

“Just think, Dean. John Winchester’s lost little lamb, couldn’t save his brother, those big sensitive eyes… they’ll open the door for him, just like Rick did. And then I’ll shoot them in the he-ad,” Sam sang, and for a moment he was silhouetted by lights outside.

Dean fired high, and Sam startled.

“Almost fooled me, Dean. But you won’t do it. Not even to stop me.”

Coolly, Sam stepped out into the air and started running.

Dean followed, skidding to a halt on wet boards. He was in the open.

He let that fucking demon play with his head.

Shit.

He heard the shot just before a hot line of pain sliced across his ribs. He gasped, and the pain in his chest made him stagger.

He fell into the water, freezing cold, and swam down. Too dark to see. So cold. He held his breath, prayed _Cas, help me pick the right way,_ and started swimming one-armed in the cold dark. So cold. So heavy. He held still in the water, his lungs burning with the need to breathe, just one breath. So dark.

So cold.

There was a light. He swam toward it. It sparkled, bloomed red, faded, replaced by gold, tiny lights in a huge circle rising, then falling to earth. Then green.

Fireworks.

Dean wasn’t cold anymore. His chest didn’t hurt. The fireworks blossomed across the sky and Sammy held his hand and cheered. It was the 4th of July, and Dad was off chasing a Daeva and that was dangerous but he was with Uncle Bobby and Dean had conned a gas jockey into selling him fireworks and Sam loved them, twisting with happiness every time one of the rockets launched into the night and shone brighter than any star could, and that was better than being allowed to go along. Screw shooting practice. It was the 4th, and he’d made his little brother happy. Dean could hardly wait to see Sam’s face when he pulled out the second bundle he’d hidden in the trunk, after these ones had been set off.

“Dean,” a voice said among the popping and cheers. Dean stood up and peered into the night.

“Cas?”

“Dean, come back to me,” Cas said.

Dean coughed up filthy cold water. His lungs burned and he cough-puked up more water, tasted diesel and rotting plants and he couldn’t get a decent breath, then strong hands rolled him over and water gushed from him in a horrible noxious rush. He was cold and Jo was screaming his name somewhere off in the distance and his throat was killing him.

“Cas, help—”

He coughed again and the prickles burned in his chest, smoothed his breathing, chased the last green blossom of sky-fire away. He was on the shore of Lake Superior, his demon possessed brother had shot him, and he nearly drowned.

Or maybe he drowned.

“Cas,” Dean said. He had a bullfrog in his throat. “Did I die?”

“Nearly,” Castiel said. “Maybe for a few seconds.”

“You brought me back.”

“You called for me.”

“What in the hell? Dean?” Jo asked. “Mister, you take your hands off him--”

“It’s Cas,” Dean said. “He’s a friend.”

Castiel looked up at Jo, and said, “Demons will tell the truth, when it suits their purposes.”

Jo gasped and stared at Castiel.

“What?” Dean asked. “It’s okay, Jo, he’s my friend, he got me out.”

Jo’s eyes flickered over a soaking wet Dean and up at Castiel. Dean coughed up more lake water, and it made a dark splash on Castiel’s tan trenchcoat.

Oh. Shit. “What was that about demons--” Dean coughed again. God, but he was cold and filthy and wet and alive, and how much of Castiel’s juice did that take?

“Nothing,” Jo said. “Sam got away.”

“Figured.” Dean said. “You heard him though, right?”

“Yeah.” Jo hugged her wet coat around herself. “He’s going after hunters.”

“Who’s the closest hunter to here?”

Jo looked bleak. “Bobby Singer.”

“Shit.”

*

Castiel drove most of the way, and Dean tried to relax as Castiel pushed the car to race car limits, taking mad risks in passing trucks. They stopped to fuel and grab another bottle of cool, clean water for dean to drink and castiel kept it up until they hit the border into South Dakota.

“I can keep going,” Castiel said, as they changed seats.

“That demon was trying to get me to kill Sam,” Dean said. “I think that’s what it wants. How much juice do you have left? Enough to smite a demon? Can you even touch one?”

“I can,” Castiel said.

“Well then let me go in first to distract him, maybe we’ll throw him off balance when you come in,” Dean said.

“Don’t die again,” Castiel said, and vanished.

“Great advice,” Dean grumbled, and dared to drive a little faster.

The lights blazed in the Singer house. Dean didn’t bother trying to come in quiet. The door opened at his touch, and Bobby hollered, “In here!” But Dean cleared his way to the library, pearl-handled Colt 1911 in one hand, water pistol in the other, until he found Bobby waiting by a heavily bound Sam, stuck under the Key of Solomon Bobby had painted into the ceiling.

“No supersoaker?” Bobby asked.

“I left it with Jo.”

“You sweet on that girl?” Sam asked. “Here I told her you thought of her as a little sis—”

“I’ll tell you when I want to hear from you,” Dean said, while the demon choked on holy water. He waited while the demon coughed up the last of it.

“Dean, back from the dead,” the demon rasped.

“I thought I told you to shut up.” Dean aimed for the eyes.

“I can bite off Sam’s tongue,” the demon answered.

“You won’t be in him long enough,” Dean said. “Bobby?”

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—_ ”

Bobby read the exorcism from a book. Dean had it memorized, thanks to Castiel’s relentless quizzing. He leaned over and got into the demon’s face a little. “Whatever master plan you maggots downstairs think you’ve got, you’ll never get Sam. I’ll kill every last one of you first.”

The demon laughed. “You think—this was the master plan? I could give a rat’s ass about the master plan. You think I’d take Sam Winchester if I did?”

“ _Humiliare sub potenti manu dei—_ ”

“Fuck this,” the demon said. “I’m already bored.”

Bobby’s recitation faltered.

“Yeah, altar boy Latin ain’t what it used to be,” the demon sneered. “I know some too.”

“What the fuck?”

“The demon’s bound in the vessel,” Bobby said, and the demon started chanting Latin of its own.

“How!”

“There’s a brand, looks a bit like a Q. Right side of the body.”

“His arm!” Dean shouted. A red scar peeked out from under Sam’s rolled up shirt-sleeve. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know!” Bobby shouted.

A crack sounded from above, and Dean looked up at a broken Key of Solomon. “That’s better,” the demon said.

Bobby flew backwards into the wall at the demon’s glare. Dean had the wind knocked out of him by the other. The demon sighed, and laughed.

“Much better,” Sam--the demon--broke the chair into matchsticks, ropes sliding off his arms and legs. He walked to where Dean tried to catch his breath, and stood over Dean shaking his head.

“You ever notice that when people want to describe the worst possible thing, they say it’s like Hell?”

The demon smiled at Dean, curving Sam’s lips, Sam’s head turned at a coy angle, Sam’s eyebrow arched in a picture of flirtatious interest. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. Hell is—”

Sam put the full force of his body falling into the right hook that snapped Dean’s head to the left.

“Well, it’s like Hell. It’s made of blood and fear and pain and there’s no un-life like it, and I’m never going back there.”

The demon punched him again, again. Dean spit blood in his face, and the demon laughed. “By the way, I saw your dad there. He says hi. Oh, and sorry. I told him I’d let you know if I saw you.”

“Sorry?”

“He didn’t put it in his little book? He made a deal for you, Dean, when you were going on seventeen and you came this close to dying of a broken heart.” The demon brought up thumb and forefinger, held a fraction of an inch apart. Dean saw it and two ghost images of it, to the right and the left.

“You’re lying.”

The demon shrugged and clocked him again. “You needed a new heart, they said, and then you woke up all better. He dealt for you, because if you were dead, who’d look after Sammy?”

Dean stared at the demon in horror. “You’re lying.”

“It’s always about Sam, isn’t it? Now I’m Sam. Pretty, pretty Sam. I’m all up inside him and I know…everything.”

“Shut up.”

“I know how much he loves you, Dean, and how much he loathes himself because he loves you,” the demon pouted. “And we don’t need you anymore, Dean. Little Sammy’s all grown up.”

The demon wound up for another avalanche of a right cross, then squawked as Castiel caught its wrist and Bobby brought a glowing poker down on its forearm.

The demon in Sam’s body screamed, and black smoke billowed out of Sam’s open mouth. Sam collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

Castiel reached for Bobby, who shrugged the touch off.

“You’re late,” Bobby said.

“Shut up,” Castiel responded, and healed him.

“He already brought me back from the dead, Bobby, cut the guy some slack.”

“Your nose is broken,” Castiel gave him a look and reached out. Dean wanted to sneeze, fought the urge, and groaned as his bones creaked under Castiel’s touch.

“I didn’t die.” Dean shrugged.

Castiel smiled and turned to heal Sam.

*

Dean stared over the rim of his gray-lensed sunglasses. The sky was brilliantly blue, the water turquoise, and the sand was a soft shade of ballerina pink.

“Cas,” he said. “I shouldn’t be here, you used up so much of your grace.”

“It’s depleted,” Castiel said, “but bringing you here doesn’t take much energy.”

“Is this the beautiful place you’re using to recharge your batteries? Where is this?”

“Harbor Island, Bahamas,” Castiel said. “You prefer warm beaches to cool ones, and I remembered this place.”

“Well, thanks for bringing me,” Dean said.

Castiel faced him, gentle hands on Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean,” he said, urgently. “Demons lie. They don’t care about anything but hurting you with the thing that will worm inside you and not let go.”

“Sam’s my brother.” Dean didn’t resist when Castiel held both his shoulders tight.

“He’s your brother,” Castiel repeated, “And demons lie, Dean. The bond you share—”

“Don’t say that,” Dean rasped. “Don’t talk about that.”

“The bond you share is a weapon against the apocalypse, Dean. Doesn’t it make sense to make you doubt it? Fear it? Turn it into something ugly, so you’ll shy from it?”

“So the demon lied?” Dean asked, both his hands buried in Castiel’s trenchcoat.

“The demon lied, Dean,” Castiel said, and caught Dean as he fell forward, stroked his hair, and murmured it again and again.

They stood that way until Dean woke up.


	11. 1: The Blackest of All Human Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves.

Dean was taking his turn at driving back from Iowa after finding a little boy’s bones. Sam was in the passenger seat, eyes closed, arms folded over his solar plexus, chin tucked in tight. Word had gotten round about how Dean’s life as a contractor and budding restoration expert opened doors. They started getting referrals to go on ghost hunts and so with demon activity at a weirdly low ebb, Sam and Dean became Ghostbusters, with a specialty in residential hauntings.

They went in looking for a vengeful spirit. They left behind the remains of a little boy. They went in with salt and iron, spades and lighter fluid. They left unburned bones behind.

Martin Draper was a victim of the sort of monster the police needed to hunt. Burn his bones, and they would destroy evidence. So they called in the tip to the cops and got the hell out of Fort Dodge. They would spread the word to leave that spirit unquiet, hoped that justice would finally let it rest.

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Dean promised again.

“I know.”

That was the first time Sam had said a word in ninety miles. Dean turned his head for a look at Sam, who was rubbing his belly and frowning.

“Deserted stretch of road, nothing for miles,” Dean said. “Your stomach’s right on time, Sammy.”

That made Sam smile, and Dean felt the band in his chest ease. He kept an eye out. He was going to need gas, too.

*

There was a Gas n’ Sip forty miles later.

“Thank Castiel’s Dad,” Dean said. “Fill it all the way. You want snacks?”

“Bag of pretzels and a water,” Sam said. “I need real food, though.”

Dean put his hand up to signal that he’d heard and  trotted inside.

“Hi there,” he said to the clerk, and went looking for pretzels. He found them and water (hell, one for himself too, why not) and set them down on the counter.

“Pump three,” he said, as if it wasn’t obvious. “And do you know if there’s anywhere we can get some hot food this time of night?”

“There’s a place up the road, should still be open if you break a couple laws.”

“Well I wouldn’t break the speed limit of course but I would try to get there on time.”

The clerk laughed. “Tell you what, I’ll call them and let them know you’re coming so they don’t shut down the grill. They should be able to handle take-out.”

“You, sir, are awesome. That’s a big help. Tell them to look for a black ‘67 Impala, we’ll be there quick as we can.”

“I’ll let ‘em know you’re coming,” the clerk promised.

The cafe wasn’t far and his iPod played him The Mariner’s Revenge Song. Dean loved to sing along to the absurd story, and so he threw paper and Sam had to go in and get the order.

“I drive next,” Sam said.

“Sure thing. Don’t forget the extra onions.”

“Dude, I have to be in the car with your extra onions.” Sam opened the door and sidestepped a puddle.

“Hey, see if they got any pie!”

Sam gave him a look and slammed the door shut. Thunder rolled overhead, and Sam trudged through the rain to the diner.

Dean turned on the windshield wipers and watched the waitress smile at Sam and walk over with a pad. A couple of customers held up the counter and sat in window booths, mostly old-timers with endless cups of coffee. Dean couldn’t make a guess on whether that meant the food was good, but when it came to road diners, you win some, you lose some.

Static crackled across the music, and Dean frowned. Battery or wires? He bent over to try shuffling ahead a track, and got nothing.

“Oh great.” He sat back, rolling his eyes. What was a roadtrip without tunes? Maybe Sam’s iPod worked. Maybe they’d be listening to Wumpscut and Combichrist all the way to South Dakota. Well, whatever.

Wait.

Dean sat up and peered into the diner’s windows.

Everyone was gone.

“What the hell?” Dean got out of the car.

Sam was gone.

“Sam?”

Dean ran inside the diner and realized that the people hadn’t vanished.

They were dead.

The guy in the booth was facedown in his pot roast, blood spreading out in a pool from under the table. Dean drew his Colt 1911 and went low ready. Everyone in his sightline was down, so freshly dead that blood still poured from slit throats.

And Sam was gone.

Dean cleared the room and pushed the back door open to nothing but the night. No tracks. Dean let the door swing shut and caught the fall of pale yellow powder spilling off the lip of the window.

Fuck. sulfur.

“Sammy?”

That sudden quiet from demon activity? Eye of the storm. Bobby had been right. They were right in the middle.

He should have gone to get the food. The car was warded. Sam would have been safe.

Dean reached for his phone. One bar of signal. Middle of the night. Dean fought through the mud and made it back inside the Impala, where his music was playing Snow Patrol just fine, thanks.

“Castiel! Sam is gone, man, he walked into a cafe and he vanished, demons took him and everyone here is dead.”

“Call Bobby,” Castiel said. He’s awake.”

“Signal is shit out here.”

“I’ll drive,” Castiel said, and Dean skidded around the back of the Impala. He didn’t manage to get the door shut before Castiel had the car reversing down the muddy drive to the highway.

*

They reached Sioux Falls just after sunrise.

Dean left his mud-caked boots on the porch and rushed inside the house. He could smell coffee, hot and ready. Bobby stood before a map of the US covered in colored push pins.

“What’s that? What are you doing?” Dean asked. He ignored the coffee and went straight for the cabinets. Graveyard dirt. Bones of a black cat. Yarrow. A silver fork. Black ribbon. A silver pin to prick his finger, clear white rum. Dean picked up spell ingredients and put them in a purple sack.

“What are you doing?” Bobby asked.

“Demons took him. We have to summon one.”

“On a crossroads pact? Forget it. I already did a conjuration in the yard. Nobody’s answering the line.”

“Perhaps you should tell him what your map is for,” Castiel said. “Dean is quite anxious.”

“I can see that,” Bobby said. “Have a look, boy.”

Dean stepped up to the map and read the legend. All of the pins were verified cases of demon activity, coded to correspond with certain months. The current month, April, had white tacks, and there was only one: Duluth, MN. Where he had nearly died.

Maybe had died. Castiel said he had.

“Nothing? No demons anywhere since we took down that one?”

“Nada. I think you’re going to need Ash for this one.”

“Ash won’t be up for another…” Dean checked the time. “Fuck, nine hours.”

“You need sleep too, boy.”

“You want me to sleep at a time like this?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “I certainly have enough grace to do that.”

“Fuck, Cas. You’re still down on juice?”

“I’ve been in Istanbul,” Castiel said. “And I have contemplated at Từ Hiếu Temple. I was going to visit London for a performance of Miserere Mei Deus. The Sixteen are wonderfully energizing.”

“Sorry you had to miss it,” Dean said. “I wish you could be there.” Because Sam wouldn’t be vanished. Because this wouldn’t be an emergency.

“Don’t apologize, Dean. I will help as much as I can.”

“I can find you a recording, Cas, if that would help,” Bobby was already at his computer, searching the web.

“I believe that it would,” Castiel said. “Every beautiful thing will. Thank you, Bobby.”

“Cas, it’s not going to be enough.”

“I will do everything I can,” Castiel said. “Now go upstairs, or I will carry you.”

“I can’t sleep,” Dean said.

“You will sleep,” Castiel promised.

*

Dean dreamed of a garden heavy with cherry blossoms. Their scent filled the air, the petals drifted to the precisely mowed grass, floated on a reflecting pool filled with Koi.

“Where are we?”

“The private garden of Lorraine Vickers, in West Vancouver, Canada.”

“There’s no beach.” Dean could hear the rhythmic thump of a bamboo fountain and the quiet murmur of the pond’s water circulation.

“This too is a place where land and water meet,” Castiel said.

“What if I lose him, Cas? What’s going to happen?”

“I can’t tell you,” Castiel said. “I can’t tell you what happens.”

“But you know.”

“We’re coming up on a fixed point in time.”

“Cas, please,” Dean said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You will know, Dean. Listen to the water. Rest. This is a dream.” Castiel’s hand lined Dean’s face from temples to jaw. “A dream.”

A dream. Dean closed his eyes and let Castiel’s touch comfort him. Felt his fingertips lightly scratch down the back of his neck, drag through the short fuzz of his hair.

A dream.

*

Dean opened his eyes and blinked. He felt rested. He half expected Castiel to be in Sam’s bed, on his back with his eyes closed as if he needed to sleep so he could—dream with him.

Dean lifted his hips and took his jeans down, sat up and pulled his feet out of them, stripped the belt out of the loops and pulled every scrap of paper, spare change, and his wallet out of the pockets. His phone rested next to his clock radio, charged to full. Good.

He tried calling Sam and stripping his shirt off at the same time. Voicemail. He plugged in his laptop and checked for GPS. Nothing.

Dean had the water going in the shower when the phone rang. Dean recognized the number and answered it.

“Ash, what have you got?”

“Listen, that’s a big negatory on Sam.”

“Come on, man, you gotta give us something, we’re looking at a 3000 mile haystack here.”

“I did find something,” Ash whispered.

“What?”

“I can’t talk over this line—hey, how’s it going?” Ash greeted someone walking by.

“I don’t have time for this!”

“Make time!” Ash snapped. “I think it’ll help you find your brother, and this…it’s huge. So get here. Now.”

Ash hung up.

Dean looked at the phone, at the running water. He hollered, “We’re going to the Roadhouse!” Then he left the phone on top of the toilet tank and got in the shower.

Castiel rode in the center of the back seat as Dean drove west through Nebraska with the pedal to the floor. The music was off. Bobby sat in the passenger seat, balancing a canvas bag on his knees, and read another manuscript on top of that. Castiel stayed quiet and watchful until he sat up, nostrils flared.

Dean could smell it too.

There’d been a fire.

“Oh no, no…” Dean said. He knew it had to be the Roadhouse. He knew.

That didn’t stop the tearing fear and pain at seeing the whole place burnt to the ground. Didn’t stop him from choking on the effluvia of blackened timbers and burnt bodies. He still got out of the Impala and tried searching for a survivor among the boards and the bones.

“Maybe Ash got away,” Dean said. “Maybe he got into the bush—ASH!”

“Dean,” Castiel said.

Dean shook his head, but he looked.

The angel crouched next to a corpse.

“I can’t heal this,” Castiel said. “Not even if I were at my full power. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Is Ellen in there, or Jo?” Bobby asked.

“I can’t tell,” Castiel said.

“Did you know that this was going to happen, Cas?” Dean demanded. “Is this one of your fixed points in time, that we’d have to come out here and find this?”

“I can’t tell you, Dean,” Castiel said. “I can’t influence your decisions here. Some things that came to pass in the true path never happened here, but others have.”

“It did. It did!” Dean kicked at what was left of the bar and left a hole the size of a dinner plate. He whirled on Cas, who still crouched by Ash’s body. “Why can’t you admit it, Cas? What did Ash know? How are we going to find Sam?”

“We’ll find him, Dean,” Bobby said. “Take it easy.”

“He knows and he won’t tell us!” Pain nearly dropped Dean to his knees. He groped for Castiel, who grabbed him by the elbows and held him up. His head split open. He shut his eyes and saw—

It disappeared. The pain subsided enough for him to actually cry about it. He looked to Cas, who didn’t pass a hand over his eyes, didn’t move to take the pain away.

Castiel watched, and Dean’s vision blacked out again

(was that a bell?)

And he gasped for air, the inside of his skull hammering.

“What was that?” Bobby asked

“Hurts,” Dean said, as it faded. “Headache?”

“You usually get headaches like that?”

“No,” Dean said, and tried to laugh. “Must be the stress.”

Castiel still held him up, silent. Dean looked at him, and saw Castiel staring back, one fold of a frown deep between his eyebrows as he waited.

Waited for what? Dean had time to wonder, before the axe of pain split his skull again.

His knees buckled. Castiel held his weight, took him down gently. Bobby rushed over and that was the last thing he saw before the bell, a flash of Sam’s face, and darkness.

*

“Dean?”

Dean opened his eyes. He lay in the back of the Impala, feet dangling off the edge of the bench seat. It was dark, at least twilight.

He’d been unconscious for hours.

His head spun. His stomach ached as if he’d vomited until it was just a tortured, futile clenching. Castiel hovered over him, watching. Dean forced himself to look away, to look at Bobby, crouched at his booted feet.

“I saw Sam,” Dean said. “I saw him.”

“What, like a vision?” Bobby asked.

Castiel said, “yes” overtop of Dean’s “no.”

“It was a vision?” Bobby asked.

“I’m not some psychic,” Dean gasped. His head was swimming. He saw Sam.

“It was sent,” Castiel said.

“Good to know,” Dean grunted. “That was about as fun as getting kicked in the jewels.”

“What else did you see?”

“A bell,” Dean said. “A big bell. Some kind of engraving on it, I don’t know. I saw it twice.”

“Engraving?” Bobby asked. “Like a tree?”

“Yeah.”

“An oak tree?”

“Yes.”

“I know where Sam is,” Bobby said. “Cold Oak, South Dakota.”

Back the other way and across the state.

“There’s no time,” Dean said. “No time.”

“If we hook up to Highway 14 and follow the Missouri, we’ll save a little time—”

“There’s no time!” Dean insisted. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“We couldn’t! Boy, Castiel tried healing you and all you did was retch. And we didn’t know where to go, so we just stayed put.”

“And now there’s no time,” Dean insisted. “Cas. Cas, please.”

Castiel’s fingers twitched, lifted off the back of the seat, then pressed firmly against the leather, denting under his nails. “Dean.”

“Please, take us to Sam. Please.”

“You wish me to transport you to Cold Oak?”

“Yes, Cas. Hurry.”

“Bobby,” Castiel said. “Sit in the back seat and take Dean’s hand.”

Dean lurched to sit upright. Bobby opened the front passenger side door and grabbed his kit, clutched it close to his chest. His grip on Dean’s hand bruised.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Ready.”

“This will take a great deal of my grace,” Castiel said.

“I will beg, Cas. If I have to, I’ll beg.”

Castiel took Dean’s hand. His grip was gentle, dry, so warm.

“As you wish,” Castiel said.

He looked—so sad.

Cas, Dean tried to say, but the world warped and stretched him like a rubber band and snapped into place.

*

He was still in the car. Cas had moved the whole thing, and they were before an overgrown road, barely recognizable as the bush grew through it and took it back.

“This is as close as I can get the car,” Castiel said.

“Zap us the rest of the way,” Dean said.

“I can’t,” Castiel said, and wiped his nose. A red streak bloomed against his shirt cuff.

Dean gasped. “Cas!”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, but Dean had Castiel’s nose pinched between his fingers.

“Shut up,” Dean said. “Hold your nose just like I’m doing.”

Castiel pinched his nose.

“Can you walk? Do we leave you here?” Dean asked.

“I can come with you.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and slithered out of the back seat. He ran around the other side and locked the car up, offered a hand to help Castiel get out.

“Let’s go.”

“How far?” Dean asked.

“A mile,” Bobby answered.

Dean picked up his feet, shotgun at low ready. They traveled for speed and not stealth, Dean’s urgent certainty that there was no time, no time to waste, that Sam was in so much danger Dean couldn’t even think it or he’d start screaming and never stop. They wove through saplings and bush growing up through the long neglected road, past trembling aspen that smelled like new spring leaves on a breeze that carried just a whiff of rotten eggs and burnt matches.

Dean kept pace with Bobby, who was no slouch at covering ground when he cared to. He covered the left, Bobby the right, and Castiel’s footsteps snapped branches and crushed dead leaves behind them.

The saplings thinned and gave way. The shapes of Cold Oak, South Dakota hunched under the light of a full moon, peering at Sam Winchester and a guy in desert camo fatigues, fighting for their lives.

Sam fought all out. Strikes at full speed, vicious and absolute, punctuated by grunts and ribbons of sweat or blood sparkling under the full moon’s light before falling into shadow. Sam cradled his left shoulder like it had been dislocated, but he crowded into the soldier’s space with kicks that put him through the post and rail fence they’d already broken through once.

The other guy landed on his back, and stayed down. Sam limped over and bent to pick up a weapon. The other guy tried to get up but Sam put him down with that avalanche of a right cross.

He raised the weapon like he was going to bash the other guy’s head in, kill him, and Dean sucked in a shocked breath through his nose, but Sam could be going toe to toe with a demon, a shifter, a vampire - about anything but a werewolf.

The Sam put his arm down, dropped the weapon.

Dean burst forward. “Sam?”

Thunder rolled over a clear night sky.

Sam turned toward his voice, limped toward him.

“Sam?”

“Dean!”

A shadow shifted behind Sam, became a blur of a man with a knife in his hand.

“Sam, look out!” Dean lifted the shotgun, but Sam was in the way, he didn’t have a clear shot—

The soldier planted that knife in Sam’s back, twisted, pulled.

“NO!”

Sam fell to his knees.

Dean caught him before he landed face-first. Bobby took off after the man, who had run out of sight between the buildings of Cold Oak.

Dean watched Sam’s eyes roll backward.

“Sam…Sammy,” he said, and caught Sam’s chin. “It’s going to be all right.”

“We’re gonna get you patched up, it’ll be okay, Sam, you’ll be good as new.”

Castiel’s shadow fell over him. Dean turned Sam’s face up, and the first drops of rain fell on his face, his open eyes.

“Hey, hey hey hey, I’m gonna take care of you,” Dean said to Sam’s rolling head. “That’s my job, look after my pain in the ass baby brother. Sam? Cas?”

He looked up then, at the angel standing over him.

He looked so sad.

“Can you…”

Castiel’s cheeks were wet.

“No,” Dean whispered. “No, no, no…”

Sam’s body rocked forward, fell against him.


	12. 2: My Life is Nothing But Room For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here is your shock blanket and some tea.  
> It isn't over yet.

Bobby drove the Impala.

Dean had wrapped Sammy in a blanket and held him in his arms. He’d closed Sam’s eyes, so he looked just like he was asleep, if he weren’t so heavy.

If he weren’t so cold.

He kept his eyes on Sammy’s face. Just like he was asleep: eyes closed, peaceful, but his chest didn’t rise, didn’t fall. He didn’t smack his lips or murmur or wiggle around. He didn’t turn and curl around Dean and sigh and sleep a little easier, didn’t abruptly flip over and exclaim something about fire or beg Dean not to pick up the knife.

Just like he was asleep.

Castiel sighed and mumbled something, and Dean didn’t lift his head. Didn’t look at Cas, whose head lolled back in the passenger seat, whose body rocked with the movement of the Impala crawling back home to Sioux Falls, whose mouth fell open when he fell asleep.

Angels didn’t sleep. Didn’t need to sleep. Didn’t get nosebleeds.

Didn’t weep.

Castiel did all of those things, now.

 

He washed Sam, when he got home. Washed him and dressed him in clean clothing and laid him out on a cot in the warehouse where Sam had taught him enough Krav Maga to be dangerous. He put a pillow under Sam’s head and a sheet over his body and he sat by him because there wasn’t anything else he could do.

“You know when you were five, you started asking questions,” he told Sam, when the dusty sunlight tracked across the floor and landed on Sam’s face, a little pale, a little blue, livid around the eyes.

“I remember, I begged you. Quit asking, Sammy. You don’t wanna know. I was trying to protect you. From this. I only had one job to do, keep you safe. Stay by you. Refuse to leave you. I couldn’t take the shot, Sam, I couldn’t take it.”

Dean picked up Sam’s hand. He held it, waxy and cold and purpling on the ulnar side (lividity, he knew, blood submitting to gravity now that the heart’s relentless force no longer ruled). He held it to his mouth and if his tears had any power Sam would rise, he would sit up and stare at a sight he’d only seen a handful of times and say “Dean.”

“I’m supposed to stay by you, Sammy, but I don’t know what to do,” Dean whispered. “What am I supposed to do?”

*

Bobby brought him food. Dean didn’t eat it.

Bobby tried to talk to him. Dean didn’t answer.

Bobby brought him another cot and a blanket when Dean wouldn’t move, and Dean fell asleep holding Sam’s hand.

 

A shadow fell over Dean’s arms and the chill made him look up. Castiel stood there, dressed in sweatpants and Dean’s old _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_ t-shirt. He had sweat across his forehead. He wore an ancient pair of blue-rimmed spectacles. He needed a shave. 

“What am I supposed to do, Cas?” he asked. He watched, hopefully, for a flare of light, inhaled for the keratin smell of feathers, listened for the air forced down by his wings.

“I can’t tell you,” Castiel said.

Dean bowed his head. “Do you get better?”

“I don’t know, Dean. I tire. I hunger. I thirst. But beauty still moves me.”

“Not much beauty here,” Dean muttered.

Castiel didn’t reply.

After a few minutes, he went out.

 

“I brought you this,” Bobby said, and laid the bucket of chicken on top of the box of pizza.

Dean didn’t answer.

“You should eat something.”

“I’m fine,” Dean said.

Bobby handed him a flask, and Dean took that. He drank from it, held it between his knees.

“Dean.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“I hate to bring this up, but don’t you think maybe it’s time we buried Sam?”

Dean took another drink. “No.”

“We could maybe…”

Dean’s stare made Bobby shut his mouth. “Torch his corpse? Not yet.”

“I want you to come in the house for a bit.”

“I can’t leave him.”

“Dean, please.”

“Castiel said,” Dean explained, “That I refuse to leave him. That I stick by him. I can’t—I can’t.”

Bobby wasn’t ready to give up. “Just come in the house for a bit. I need your help. Something big is going down. End of the world, big.”

“Let it end.” He failed. He failed. Cas said he saved the world. It’s ending now.

“You can’t mean that.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Dean demanded. “They took him from me! I was supposed to stay by him and Cas won’t say what—”

Dean stopped talking.

“What?”

“Cas won’t tell me what I do next,” Dean said.

He does something next. There is a _something next_ to do. There’s something he can do.

“There’s something I have to do,” Dean said. “Don’t burn Sam. Not till I get back.”

*

Dean went inside the house long enough to grab the keys to the Impala. Castiel sat in the sun faded raspberry colored sofa, and stood up when Dean came in.

“Don’t let Bobby burn Sam,” Dean said.

“I won’t,” Castiel said. No hints. No smiles. No meaningful looks, and that absence could be interpreted as readily as a presence.

Dean grabbed the purple drawstring bag and went out.

He pointed the Impala north, away from the city and into the quarter sections, the homesteads, the back roads. He drove and turned down every gravel road that looked right, swearing when dirt met asphalt, searching, looking.

He didn’t have time to go to Greenwood.

 

He found a crossroads at sundown. Pulled the car off the road, packed a portrait of himself in the sack, and set it down long enough to dig a hole in the middle, the neither here nor there but _between,_ and settled the dirt back over the sack at the moment the sun completely disappeared in the west.

Dean marked the place with his blood and waited. He turned about, turned again, nine times counterclockwise, opened his eyes.

No one was there.

Dean fell to his knees. 

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

“Dean Winchester,” a voice said.

He opened his eyes. Dark hair, dark eyes, black dress, red soles on her high heeled black shoes. Red in her eyes, glowing as she sauntered up to where Dean knelt and breathed in deep.

“Oh it’s good to meet you, Dean. Heard so much about you downstairs. Thought maybe you’d just get swept up with the bounty on your head.”

“Hell’s got a marker on me, and hundreds would kill for what I’m offering tonight.”

“Trying to make a seller’s market pitch when you’re on your knees?” She bent over and lifted his chin to the angle where he could see right down her dress. “More balls than sense. But oh, the pain on you!” she breathed deep. “Just for this, I should tell you no. Grief beard, unwashed, cadaver smell, all that shame, all that failure… and that big jagged hole in your middle that never stops screaming.”

He tilted his head back, showed her his throat. Lowered eyelids. Open mouth. He flexed his thighs and rose up, lips by her ear. “The soul everyone wants, all yours,” he whispered. “Bring Sam back. Come for me in ten years. Yours.”

“You must be joking.”

“Same deal everybody else gets,” Dean whispered.

“And you’re not everybody else, are you Dean?” She rested her long black nails on his throat, and he fought not to gag. “Why would I want to give you anything?”

“Nine years.”

“No.” She backed away.

“Eight.”

“You keep counting down, I’ll keep saying no.”

“Five years,” Dean said. “Five years, and you come for me. That’s my last offer. Five years or no deal.”

She came closer, again. Bent over. Dean braced himself for the kiss, closer, close now. Dean closed his eyes.

“Then no deal,” She said, and walked away. “Make sure you bury Sam before he starts stinking up the place.”

He had to do this. 

“Wait.”

She stopped. Dean watched her spine settle, then rise up tall.

“What do I have to do?”

She turned around, gravel shifting under the balls of her feet. “First of all, quit groveling,” she said. “Needy guys are such a turn off.”

Dean got on his feet as she came near.

She looked away, shook her head. “I shouldn’t do this at all, but I have a feeling it’s the only way we’ll get you, Dean Winchester. I’ll put your little brother back.”

“You’ll bring him back?”

“And you get...six months.”

“What.”

“Six months, so spend it well. But there’s a catch. Try to wiggle out of the deal, Sam dies. Try to find a loophole, Sam dies. In six months you’re mine. Deal?”

Dean grabbed her before she could change her mind.

*

Dean raced home and ran toward the warehouse. He burst inside and Sam startled up from the cot, only to be pushed back down by Castiel’s soothing hands. Sam propped himself up on an elbow, peering into the darkness where Dean stood, staring.

Sam. Alive. Pink and healthy and annoyed by Castiel’s fussing and breathing, the irritated cant of his eyebrows beautiful. Dean stumbled when he took a step forward, landed on hands and gravel-bruised knees, and scrambled to his feet just at the edge of the lantern’s light.

“Sammy,” he croaked.

“Dean.”

He was on his knees again, arms tight around Sam’s waist, his head buried in the creases of Sam’s dirty t-shirt, wetting it with tears. Sam squeezed, healthy and strong and alive, alive—

“You’re crying.”

Dean sniffed hard. “Yeah. I…I think I know how you felt when I finally woke up.”

The day Dean woke up with a healed heart people called it a miracle.

Dean knows what it really was, now.

“What happened to me?”

“You were hurt bad, Sam. Real bad.”

“I feel okay now, but…It hurt, Dean, I knew he’d ended me. I thought I was dead.”

“Castiel all but burnt out his grace that night,” Dean said. “He needs to sleep, eat, shave his face—”

“I’m nearsighted,” Castiel said, gravely.

“Cas…you…”

Sam put a hand out, and Castiel took it. Sam hauled him in, laid his head on his shoulder, and held the angel tight.

_Is he still an angel?_

Cas let him use him as an excuse, to cover what he’d done. He watched them and felt the awful clench of anger and didn’t know why it was there.

“Jake!” Sam shouted. “Jake, did you get him?”

That must have been the soldier Sam had been fighting.

“He got away,” Dean said.

“I’m gonna find that son of a bitch, I swear,” Sam said.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Sure thing. But right now you need to eat, rest, have a shower—” he sniffed dramatically. “Change the order.”

“You don’t smell like roses yourself,” Sam said.

“He’s been out here with you the whole time,” Castiel said. “He wouldn’t leave your side until he had to go.”

Castiel could lie. Castiel could use the truth to tell lies. When he wanted to.

He had to know what Dean had done.

He had to.

But he was helping Dean cover it up.

Dean watched Castiel gently loose himself from Sam’s grip. “Cold chicken?”

Sam laughed, a soft huff. “Shouldn’t I be on some convalescent diet?”

“Sam, you could run a mile in ten minutes right now. Hell, eight. Would you rather have cold pizza?”

“Gimme the pizza. Is it veggie?”

*

Sam ate cold pizza and drank water from a bottle and explained what happened in Cold Oak. He talked about the dream-vision from the yellow-eyed demon, who said that there would be only one winner of the contest, the last man standing. How one of the psychics, Andy, had tried to send Dean visions while holding a receipt Dean had signed D. Grohl — ”It worked,” Dean said, wryly— about how another one of them pretended to be helpless and frightened and fooled Andy, had nearly fooled Sam, and then Jake literally stabbed him in the back.

“And we have to get him,” Sam said. “He’s going along with the yellow-eyed demon’s plans.”

“We’ll have to find him first,” Dean said.

“Maybe we can get Ash to help,” Sam said.

Dean grimaced. “Yeah, about that. Seems I’ve got something to tell you too.”

Sam listened to Dean describe the phonecall and the burnt remains of the Roadhouse. How the bodies were burnt beyond recognition.

“We identified Ash by his watch,” Dean said. “We don’t know who else was in there.”

“Ellen? Jo?” Sam asked.

“We don’t know.”

“But what did Ash find?” Sam asked.

“He wouldn’t tell us,” Dean said. “Bobby’s working on it.”

“He said that it’s big,” Castiel said.

“End-of-the-world, big,” Dean said.

And he’d been ready to let it end.

“And you don’t know what it is?” Sam asked. “Well, come on, let’s go.”

*

Bobby did a good job of not fainting on the spot when Sam walked in. 

“Hey, Bobby,” Sam said, and pushed past to stick his head in the fridge. “Who didn’t refill the water?”

“That was me,” Bobby said. “It’s…good to see you up and around.”

Sam turned on the tap and let it run. “Castiel had a big job patching me up.”

His back was to Bobby. Lucky thing. Bobby was glaring between Dean and Castiel, furious and frightened. “I’ll say that job would have taken a miracle.”

“Cas, again. Thank you. There aren’t words,” Sam said.

“No further thanks are necessary,” Castiel said. “Please. I feel embarrassment now.”

“Oh,” Sam said, and looked down at the scuffed linoleum floor. “Are you…going to get it back?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. “Ask me again next month.”

Sam nodded and kept his chin down.

Dean cleared his throat and took the full heat of Bobby’s stare. “You said you were working on something big.”

“You remember the map that I used, trying to track a pattern of demon activity?”

Yesterday. That had been yesterday.

“I’ve been getting calls,” Bobby said. “Turns out my map needed a little update.”

He led them to look at the new map, and Dean choked.

The map was snowy with pink pins. Demons were swarming all over the midwest, but they were a plague on Wyoming. Ranchers were likely cursing the deaths of record numbers of livestock. Pink dots all over the state -

Except for a blank spot, in the south west corner.

“The demons are surrounding it,” Sam said.

“The eye of the storm,” Bobby agreed.

“That is likely where we have to go,” Castiel said.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Dean protested. “You’re all out of juice.”

“I may still be of some use,” Castiel lifted his hand and his long silvery knife—the blade was long enough to be considered a sword— manifested in his hand. “Demons die to this blade.”

“And you’re running on fumes,” Dean said.

“If I’m not with you and you get in trouble,” Castiel said quietly, “I can’t come when you pray for me.”

“If you’re with us and you get hurt,” Dean said, “Will you have enough grace to heal yourself?”

Castiel looked back. “Once.”

He was already eating. Sleeping. Cutting himself shaving. What would one more healing do?

“Cas, don’t do this.” Dean said. “You’ve already given so much.”

“It’s mine to give,” Castiel said.

*

Dean was trying to read Castiel’s face, to ascertain what the fuck possessed Cas to throw everything away on helping him. Everything. He hadn’t figured it out when Bobby cleared his throat and said, “Dean, I’d like to talk to you. Alone.”

Dean had to follow Bobby outside, across the gravel path to the garage. The older man whirled on him and hissed, “You stupid ass. What did you do?”

Dean looked away.

“Castiel didn’t have the juice to heal a papercut,” Bobby said. “Sam was _dead._ Dead for a day. And then you tear out of here around sundown and you come back and Sam is walking. What did you do?” Bobby demanded.

He couldn’t look at Bobby. Couldn’t watch all that fear for him in Bobby’s eyes.

“You made a deal. For Sam. Didn’t you.”

No words would come.

“How long did they give you?”

“Bobby—”

“HOW LONG?”

Dean looked at the gravel under their boots. “Six months.”

Bobby sucked in a breath, let it out. “Damn it, Dean.”

“I couldn’t let Sam die, Bobby.” The moon was still full enough to light everything with a soft glow, bright enough for Dean to see how angry Bobby was.

But he had to do it.

He had to.

“What is it with you Winchesters, huh?” Bobby asked. “You, your dad—” he stopped, shook his head. “How’d you feel when you knew your dad went for you?”

“That’s just it,” Dean said. “He went so I could look after Sam. He still needed it. And I screwed that up. I had to make it right, make my life mean something.”

“Like it didn’t before?” Bobby growled.

“Bobby—”

“How’s Sam going to feel when he finds out what you’ve done?” Bobby demanded.

“He can’t find out.”

“He’ll figure it out,” Bobby warned. “He’s nowhere near stupid. He’ll figure it out.”

“You can’t tell him,” Dean said. “You can take a shot at me, do whatever you have to do but please don’t tell him.”

Bobby’s hand landed on Dean’s face, and he flinched. Not a slap. Bobbys fingers on his cheek, squeezing, made Dean’s chest hitch. Bobby’s face crumpled and he shut his eyes and Bobby never cried, never, he can’t watch this, it was worse than his fists, worse than his shouting—

Gravel skittered underfoot to the left. Dean headed for cover and a sightline before he even thought, _Someone’s coming_. A shape moved through the spidery lines of the cracked windshield he watched through, and he closed the space between that shape before he saw who it was.

“Ellen?” Dean asked, and grabbed her to keep her from falling. Bobby got a shoulder under her and they walked her to the house.


	13. 3. It could Never Be Filled By Anyone But You

They gave her the kitchen chair that only wobbled a little but Bobby poured her a shot of holy water and slid it down the table.

Ellen gave Bobby a look that said _come on, really?_

Bobby waited.

“Is this really necessary?”

“It’s just a belt of holy water. It shouldn’t hurt.”

Ellen looked down at the shot glass and smirked. She picked it up and tossed the shot back, and slid the glass down the table.

“You happy?”

“Very,” Bobby said. “I’m very happy you’re not possessed.”

“Now whiskey, please.”

Bobby picked up the bottle.

Dean leaned against a kitchen counter. Castiel stood next to him, smelling faintly of sweat, and he mourned the size of the hot water tank and the lineup for the house’s only bathroom.

Sam sat at the table, and he reached out for Ellen’s hand. “Ellen, what happened, how did you get out?”

Ellen took Sam’s hand and patted it like she was comforting him. “Damndest thing. Wasn’t supposed to. But we ran out of pretzels, and so I decided to drive into Omaha and do the full run.” She drank, sighed. “Ash called me. I could barely hear him, but he told me to look in the safe.”

“In the bar floor?” Sam asked.

“In the old coal scuttle,” Ellen said. “Got back in this afternoon, and…I guess you know what I found.”

“Demons did it,” Bobby said.

“Sulfur told me that,” Ellen said. “A lot of good people died in there. And I got to live. Because Jo was out on a salt and burn in Montana and I couldn’t send her to Costco.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Castiel said. “The actual destruction only took minutes to accomplish. Your presence would have meant your death.”

Ellen turned and took in the rumpled clothes, the angel’s squint through the blue-rimmed glasses. “Nice of you to say, uh…”

“Castiel,” Dean said. “Castiel this is Ellen.”

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” Castiel said.

Ellen gave him a tired smile. “Me too, kid.”

Dean wondered how old Castiel was. How old he _really_ was.

Bobby poured another whiskey and sent it across the table. “Ellen, you mentioned a safe. Did the demons get to it?”

“Took me a while to dig down into the coal scuttle.”

She reached into her coat. Paper crinkled. She pulled out a map, unfolded it, laid it out.

X’s marked five spots in southern Wyoming.

“Wyoming again?” Dean asked. “What does that mean?”

“That’s the dead spot on the map,” Sam said. “It means we have to go there, Cas was right.”

“It means more research,” Bobby said. “Ellen you look dead on your feet. Go on upstairs and get some rest.”

Ellen nodded and got up.

“You boys bring a cot back in the house, Castiel just got kicked off the couch. You all need rest.”

“We have to know what these maps mean,” Dean protested.

“The sea’s not boiling,” Bobby said. “Frogs aren’t raining from the sky. Sleep. All of you.”

They put Castiel’s cot in the space between their beds. Sam claimed right to the bathroom after Ellen, and no one argued.

“We smell like savages,” Dean complained, when Sam disappeared. “I hope he doesn’t take all night in there.”

“I’ll go last,” Castiel offered.

“All the hot water will be gone by then.”

“It feels like rain,” Castiel said. “Colder than the Christmas Islands. More like Prince Edward Island, or Vik. I’ll go last.”

“I should—”

“You’ll get your share of cold water at the end,” Castiel said.

“You go first in the morning.”

“As you wish.”

“Cas, where—” Dean looked up at Sam’s arrival. He hadn’t even heard the water shut off. “That was quick.”

“There’s a line up behind me,” Sam said. “Whoever’s next.”

“Dean.”

“Cas, something you need to know, right now. Dean always throws scissors.”

Castiel smiled as Dean sidled through the narrow gap between the cot and the bed. “I know.”

Dean grumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it.

He left off shaving. That could wait. He mixed shampoo and water and lathered his hair in the sink, then cursed the soapy trails of water dribbling down his back as he brushed his teeth. He used every trick he could think of to give the hot water a chance to tick up a little bit and he was still treated to slightly warmer than tepid and fading fast. He stuffed his clothes in the laundry sack and put on boxers and his old Sioux Falls Canaries t-shirt.

Cas waited in the hall outside the bedroom. “Sam was too tired to talk to me,” he said. “But he was asking questions.”

“He does that,” Dean said. “Sorry, Cas. All the hot water is gone.” 

“It’ll be like rain,” he said, and put his hand on Dean’s shoulder as he walked by.

Sam was already asleep. Dean kept the lamp on so Castiel wouldn’t bark his shins on the cot. Castiel came in with his clothes in a neat bundle. He’d shaved in that cold water, with the nicks to prove it. He caught Dean eyeing the cuts and grimaced. “I don’t know how you manage this. I would grow a beard, but it itches.”

“There’s an art to it,” Dean said. “Let’s get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

He turned the light out and Cas dragged his sheet and blanket over his shoulders.

Dean flipped his pillow over and settled back down. Castiel was looking at him with worry, but he tried smiling.

Dean slid his hand out from under the pillow and patted Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel reached up and took Dean’s hand, held it, his fingers laced through Dean’s.

“When this is over, we’ll go to Oregon,” Dean whispered. “We’ll drive up the coast. We’ll ride on the ferry and go to Tofino, watch the whales. We’ll drive back down, all the way to Mexico and we’ll stop at every beach you want to see.”

Castiel closed his eyes and listened.

*

Dean woke up to the smell of breakfast. Cas still held his hand. Sam was awake, propped up on one elbow, and looking at them. He glowered at Sam and shook Castiel a little. “Hey. Cas.”

Castiel blinked awake. “I think I fell asleep while you were talking. I’m sorry.”

“No, that was the idea. You get the shower first. Smells like breakfast is almost ready.”

Castiel smiled and let go of Dean’s hand. “I’ll be quick.”

He got up and left the bedroom, and Sam turned a wide smirk on Dean.

“He couldn’t sleep,” Dean said.

“Oh, you’re adorable.”

“Shut up. Cas shouldn’t be sleeping at all.”

Sam quit smiling. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“Come on, no tearjerkers. He’s still got grace. He’s just on the injured reserve list.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, but he reached behind him and rubbed his back. “I’ll go see if breakfast needs help.”

Bobby was cooking. That meant you could have anything you wanted, so long as it was cooked in scrambled eggs. Ellen sat down with a thick book already bristling with Post-it notes.

Sam was washing dishes. Dean barely had a chance to smirk before Ellen held out her coffee cup. “One sugar, medium light. Oh and put some bread in the toaster, thanks.”

She kept reading and making notes. “I think you’re right, Bobby.”

“Good,” Bobby said. “I think I’m right, too.”

“Right about what?”

“That can wait until everyone is here.”

“I’m here,” Castiel said. “What have you found?”

“It’s time for breakfast,” Bobby said. “Get me five plates for the eggs. Toast is serve yourself.”

Castiel looked in a cupboard, and laid a stack of five mismatched plates beside Bobby, and then found a handful of forks without prompting.

Once they sat down to eat, Bobby started explaining. “Obviously there’s something about the dead spot that makes the area peculiar. I think I found what.”

The map took the center position. “Each of these five spots is a church. Abandoned now, but the ground’s still consecrated.”

“Okay,” Dean ate more eggs.

“They’re connected by rail lines,” Bobby said. “Each to each, like this.”

He drew a five pointed star on the map.

“Wait, out of iron? Consecrated ground?” Sam asked. “It’s a devil’s trap.”

“A hundred square mile devil’s trap,” Bobby agreed.

“That’s brilliant,” Dean said.

“All built by Samuel Colt,” Bobby said.

“Wait, the same one who made the demon-killing Colt?” Sam asked.

“The same,” Bobby said. “And in the center here? There’s a cemetery.”

“More consecrated ground,” Castiel said. “It won’t deter a more powerful demon, but the iron takes care of that.”

Ellen glanced at him. “How do you know that?”

“Castiel’s a specialist,” Dean said.

Castiel nodded in acknowledgment. “Demonology.”

“Well,” Ellen said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Castiel said, and turned to the map. “No demons in this area suggests that the protection is still effective.”

“So what was Colt trying to protect?” Sam asked.

“Or keep contained?” Dean asked.

“Oh, shit,” Ellen said. “That’s comforting.”

“Demons can’t cross into the trap,” Sam said. “But people can.”

Dean looked at his brother.

“I think we know where to find Jake,” Sam said. “And we’d better hurry.”

*

Dean took the first turn driving with Sam and Castiel riding with him. Ellen and Bobby rode together in Bobby’s 4x4, which they’d all cram into when the road became impassable for the Impala.

They didn’t talk much on the way, but there was plenty to complain about in Bobby’s truck. The five of them were packed up like sardines and Bobby wouldn’t let anyone else drive.

The cemetery was forlorn and long neglected. They used the last gasps of sunlight to explore the cemetery and set up their ambush. Sam inspected the crypt in the center, shut up tight with a strange metalwork sunk into the door.

“Whatever this is,” Sam pointed, but didn’t quite touch the elaborate metal. “This is it. We got here first.”

“Good,” Bobby said. “Now comes the boring part of the stakeout.”

They didn’t have long to wait before Jake showed up. Dean assumed it was Jake, Though he’d ditched the fatigues for civilian clothing. He didn’t clear his way through the cemetery. He moved like he was tired. Dean hadn’t heard an engine. Maybe he’d walked the whole way from the perimeter.

He walked up to the crypt and sighed, hanging his head.

Sam stepped out from cover. “Hey there, Jake.”

Well. That was their cue.

Dean stepped out from behind cover. Bobby and Ellen moved to join them. Castiel had brought a knife to a gunfight, and stayed out of sight.

Jake stared at Sam, his eyes wide enough to show the whites all around. “You’re dead. I killed you.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Dean kept his eyes on Jake, trained down the sights of his handgun. Don’t look at Sam. He’ll know it.

“Afraid not,” Sam said. “Next time, finish the job.”

“You can’t be alive right now,” Jake said. “I cut clean through your spinal cord, man.”

Sam’s stance wavered. He twitched to look at Dean, but stopped. Eyes on the target. That’s what mattered.

Getting out alive. That’s what mattered.

“Just take it real easy there, son.” Bobby tried to cut the tension, take the focus away from Sam.

Jake gave Bobby a belligerent look. “And if I don’t?”

“Then we shoot,” Sam said. “All of us.”

“Oh,” Jake said. He was stone calm. “Hey lady. Do me a favor. Put that gun to your head.”

Ellen tried to fight it. Dean watched her hand shake, saw her mouth open in horror when she couldn’t stop until the barrel rested against her temple.

Jake said, “When you give in, there’s all sorts of magic you can do.”

Dean wanted to tear the gun from Ellen’s hands and knew he didn’t dare. Jake went on.

“Yeah I know. You want to do the right thing, Sam. You want to do what’s right, and what we got in us?” Jake shook his head. “Ain’t nothing right about that.”

“You let her go,” Sam said.

“But when doing what’s right hurts your family? Puts them in danger? You do what’s _wrong,_ Sam. Because you’ll do anything for them. What’s right doesn’t matter when there’s a gun to your momma’s head.”

He didn’t mean Ellen. Jake still wanted to be understood, Dean realized. And he knew what to do. “He’s giving you no choice,” Dean said. “You feel like you can’t fight him.”

But Ellen gritted out “Shoot him,” and Jake went cold again.

“You’ll be picking skull out of your hair before you can get a shot off,” Jake said.

No one would chance it.

“So why don’t you all put your weapons down.” Jake smirked. “Except you, sweetheart.”

They laid their guns down.

“Okay. Thank you.” Jake nodded and turned around. He pulled something out of his pocket, something —

The Colt. It had to be.

The demons didn’t just want it out of their hands. They needed it for this.

Bobby got to Ellen and wrestled the gun away from her head. Jake put the barrel of the Colt inside the hole in the middle of the metalwork, and light sparked along the lines.

Sam shot Jake in the back. Four shots, adjusting down and right before Jake fell.

Sam walked around Jake’s body until he stood at his feet. Jake struggled to breathe. Blood poured out of his mouth.

Jake tried to lift his head, gasped out, “Please—My family—”

Sam kept firing until the magazine was empty. 

His face—Dean had never seen Sam look like that for anyone or anything. He’d seen Sam angry, seen him in a rage. That look was cold hatred. 

That look didn’t care about Jake’s family, or what Sam would have done in Jake’s shoes, or what hung over Jake’s head so he would come out here and do a demon’s bidding.

Dean stared at Sam, who looked down at Jake’s body, and behind them the crypt banged and whirred, the metal spinning from a collection of curves and lines into a pentagram.

Dean lunged for the Colt. “It’s a lock!”

Dean pulled the gun out, but he was too late.

“Take cover!” Bobby yelled, and they put gravestones behind them, hit the dirt and laced their hands over their heads.

The doors burst open, black smoke belching out of the open doors. Swarms of writhing black rose into the sky, circled and flew off.

The larger trap was broken. The demons were getting free.

*

“We've got to shut that gate!” Ellen yelled.

Dean could see the fiery light glowing from it as smoky shapes flew out, into the sky and beyond. Dean didn’t want to think about how many there must have been waiting to get out. He got to his feet. Ellen and Bobby ran for the crypt, but Dean turned his attention to the Colt.

There was a bullet in it. Just one. And the cold creeped up the back of his neck.

Castiel stood up. He had his blade in hand, and he pointed it, shouting something Dean couldn’t hear about the roar of the damned escaping Hell. But he knew what Castiel said.

_Behind you._

He spun around, and centered his feet. The gun came up but flew out of his hands and straight into the grip of a smirking man with yellow eyes.

“You.”

“Me,” the demon said.

Dean hurtled backward and his head met stone. It blacked his vision out. He tried to get his wind back. Dizzy.

“Push harder!” Castiel yelled. Demons still escaped the crypt. Their black shapes blotted out stars. The Demon took a step closer.

“DEAN!” Sam’s voice. He’d seen the demon too. He rushed the demon, who flung him against a tree.

“I’ll get to you in a minute, champ.” The demon said. “But I knew you had it in you.”

Dean tried to get up, but the demon flicked his fingers and he was down. “I gotta hand it to you Dean, getting my favorite back. Your brother Sammy. I liked him the best. All you, boyo. But if a deal’s too good to be true—”

“You call that deal good?”

“Best the likes of you could get,” the demon grinned. Dean tried to get up again, to fight back. “Did you check old Sam there, what he did to Jake? Pretty cold, right?” The demon laughed. “You sure what you brought back was 100% pure Sam Winchester?”

Dean fought nausea. Sam struggled to get free.

“What’s dead should stay dead, Dean, but I should have known I could count on you to look out for your little brother. Now Sam’s back in the game, new and improved—”

The demon stumbled as a ghostly man tackled him. The Colt flew out of the demon’s hands, landed at Dean’s feet. Dean lurched forward to get it, and the world spun. His stomach heaved. But he fought it, as the ghost bear-hugged the yellow eyed demon, and took aim.

The demon threw the ghost off, lifted his hand to retake the Colt.

Dean fired.

The demon stared at the hole in his chest in astonishment. It was a perfect shot, straight through the heart. It burned. Yellow-orange fire bloomed in the demon’s chest, lit up his eyes, and the body fell.

Sam lurched to Dean’s side. “Dean!”

Dean looked where Sam pointed and saw—

“Dad?”

It was John Winchester. 

Older than Dean remembered, smaller, he stood and smiled at his boys, glowing just the way their mother had.

“Dad,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry, son,” John Winchester said.

“For what?” Dean asked.

John just looked sad.

Sam gripped Dean’s arm. Dean could hear his breath, hitching and bursting in poorly suppressed tears.

John lifted his hand and turned into golden white light before he disappeared.

A clang sounded behind them. The gates of Hell slammed shut. Samuel Colt’s hermetic lock spun back closed.

Dean just needed to sit down for a bit.

Just for a bit.

*

The ride back to the Impala was pure hell. Dean whimpered shamelessly, eyes shut tight. But he wouldn’t let Castiel touch him.

“No,” he said. “If you heal me I will never forgive you.”

Castiel drew his hand away. “It’s mine to give.”

“I’ll let you take me to a hospital,” Dean said. “I’ll go to a hospital. But don’t you heal me. Don’t you dare.”

*

They wanted to keep him overnight.

He had a concussion. He would recover, given some rest. Dean wouldn’t stay. He promised to follow up with his GP and Sam took the literature about what to watch for in case of complications. The doctor gave him a cervical collar to help with stability, a prescription for acetaminophen he wouldn’t actually fill, and stern advice to take it easy.

Bobby handled all the paperwork and the signatures.

Dean still wouldn’t let Castiel touch him. Sam helped him back to the car. Dean took over the back seat and tried to relax.

They played no music on the trip back

Castiel got out of the car and unlocked the front door. He stood aside while Sam got the cot out of the way and helped Dean get to bed.

“Don’t let him heal me,” Dean said.

“Castiel is sleeping on the couch tonight. But Dean, he’s hurt.”

“If Castiel loses his grace for me I’ll never forgive him. He’s got to get better. That’s more important than a headache.”

“I’ll explain to him,” Sam said. “You’re in for a boring week.”

No reading. No tv. No movies. No video games. No computer, no exercise.

Dean had nothing to do. He dozed off, only to have someone wake him up and make him recite his name or solve math problems or eat soup and crackers. Castiel didn’t visit him in his room.

Dean wondered if Cas would talk to him again. He kept his eyes closed, drifted into sleep and out of it, begged for just a little TV, but Sam wouldn’t hear of it.

Dean got on his feet and the room didn’t lurch. his head still hurt, but it was like any other knock to the noggin. He walked down to the kitchen, where Sam and Bobby and Castiel looked up from a plate full of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

“I’m not really dizzy anymore,” Dean said.

“Excuse me,” Castiel said.

“Cas, no. Wait—”

The kitchen door clicked shut.

“I couldn’t let him,” Dean said.

“You wouldn’t even let him touch you,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t trust him. After everything he’s done.”

Dean moved to sit in a chair. Castiel’s chair. Castiel’s half eaten sandwich. Castiel’s bowl of soup. Sam took it away, set it on a try, and took it outside.

“What if I burned his grace out, Bobby,” Dean said. “What if I took it all.”

“I understand, boy,” Bobby said, and got up to fix Dean some soup. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“But I still fucked up.”

“You sure did. And now that you’re walking, you’ve got a bill to settle with Sam.”

That was probably why Bobby gathered up a second sandwich and said something about cars not fixing themselves when Sam came back in.

“I fucked up with Cas,” Dean said. “I need to talk to him.”

“After you tell me what you did,” Sam said, “To bring me back to life.”

“I told you.”

“Castiel told me he didn’t heal me. That he didn’t have enough angel mojo after he moved you all to Cold Oak. That he could have, if he’d been at full power.”

“Is he getting his grace back?” Dean asked.

“Tell me what you did, Dean.”

“What I had to do.”

“Repeat history,” Sam said. “I heard the yellow-eyed demon. He said you made a deal for me, just like Dad made a deal for you.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

“I can count back ten years,” Sam said. “It was your heart. They said it was a miracle. It wasn’t, was it?”

“I didn’t know,” Dean said. “Not until—”

“And you did this. You brought me back. For your soul. So you’ll be dead in ten years?”

“Sam.”

Sam looked at him. “You have ten years to live, right?”

“Sam please.”

“How long?” Sam asked. “How long did you get?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“How long, Dean?”

“Six months.”

“ _Six months?”_

“And if I try to get out of it, you die.”

Sam stood up and the chair squealed across the floor. “How could you do that?”

“I had to,” Dean said. “I had to look out for you. That’s my job.”

This was what Dad had meant when Dean was a little boy. When he told him the most important thing was to look out for Sammy. Dean knew that now.

He understood.

“And what’s my job, Dean?” Sam asked. “You saved my life. You sacrifice for me, over and over, give everything you have. Don’t you think I’d do the same for you?”

Dean didn’t answer.

Sam leaned against the refrigerator and let his head drop down. “I should be dead!”

“And so should I,” Dean pointed out. “Even if I’d gotten a transplant, I’d still likely be dead by now. I did what I had to do, Sam. I stuck by you. And we’re not done. I can hear the phone ringing off the hook, laying there in my bed doing nothing. Those demons got loose, Sam, and it’s all hands on deck getting rid of those black-eyed bastards.” Dean sipped on cold soup, dunked a corner of grilled cheese in it. “We’ve got work to do.”

But Sam insisted that Dean go back to bed after lunch, even though really he didn’t feel all that bad, not like yesterday or the day before. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, listening to all the sounds of the house and the garage where Bobby worked, listening for Castiel’s footsteps, his voice, a door opening and closing.

Castiel didn’t come back to the house. 

He heard the phone ring. He listened to Sam impersonate an FBI supervisor, and then take down information on another demon sighting. Another. Another.

And Dean was laying around like an invalid. He rolled over and looked up at the sloped walls that led up to the thin slice of ceiling.

“Cas,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

He shut his eyes and grimaced to himself. “I don’t even know if you can hear me. But I’m sorry. I didn’t trust you when I should have. I was just scared you’d give too much, and not leave any for yourself, because…”

He took a deep breath and admitted it. 

“Because that’s what I would do for someone I loved.”

The door opened.

Dean opened his eyes.

Castiel stood at the foot of Dean’s narrow bed and watched him. Dean sat up, and the angel flinched back.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said. “I know. I figured it out…shit. When you took me to Harbor Island, I think. Maybe before that. That when you said I would be loved? You were talking about you. That you loved — the other me.”

“You,” Castiel said.

Dean flipped the blankets off his legs and got up. “You came through time from—when were you, when you realized what had happened?”

“2012,” Castiel said. “I’d just gotten back to earth, and everything was changed. Croatoan outbreaks everywhere, demons running wild. Lucifer walked the earth, and it was almost over.”

“The world?”

“The world,” Castiel agreed. “It wasn’t always like that. It flipped. I would be walking on a lonely road, and you’d pass me in the Impala, and stop. And then I’d be on that same road, devastated by fire and artillery.”

Dean stepped closer, and took Castiel’s hand. He reached past the angel and snapped the door lock. “So that was…what. The two timelines in conflict?”

Castiel looked at Dean’s hand over his. Stared at it. But when Dean tried to take his hand away, Castiel held it tighter. “I searched time, and realized what Achaiah had done. I sought him out, but he’d been killed in a faction battle among rival garrisons in Heaven. The closest I could come to interfering in the fold of time was—

“The night you rescued me from that demon. That…Meg.”

“And it was just barely in time, Dean. If I’d been two seconds later, I would have failed, and Achaiah’s vengeance would have been complete.”

“Vengeance. Against you?”

Castiel turned his face away. “I killed the brothers and sisters close to him in a strike against his garrison.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a war in Heaven, Dean.” Castiel’s thumb curled over the joints of Dean’s fingers and stroked. “I took from him his closest and dearest. So he found a way to repay me in kind.”

“You mean me—him.” Dean pointed at himself, then in the distance. _Not me. Him._

“You.”

Dean let it go. “Even though it would start Armageddon.”

“Yes.”

“You’re right, Cas,” Dean huffed. “Angels are dicks. No wonder you rebelled for him.”

Castiel looked back. “I rebelled for _you_.”

“Not me,” Dean said. “I’m not him. I’m not a lifetime trained hunter. Even today I’m in this way over my head. I’m not him.”

“The details are different,” Castiel said. “But inside, you are the same. You have the same soul, the same brightness, the same righteousness and sense of justice.”

Dean could never take compliments. He shook his head, but Castiel went on. “You look alike. You smile alike. You speak with your hands the way he does. You are him. And you save the world, Dean, with the same love, the same faith - not in my father but in your family. In Sam.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Does he have faith in you? Does he love you?”

Castiel went still. He looked down at their hands.“He has said I’m part of his family.”

“To hell with that, Cas. You give him _everything_ , and he takes you for granted? You were going to heal me, back at the crypt. You would have.”

“Yes.”

Anger now. “You saved him over and over.”

“You save me again and again.”

“Not me,” Dean said. “Him. You love him, and he—does he ever do this?”

Anger and jealousy burned a little in the back of his skull, but Dean’s hands on the angel were gentle. It’s not Castiel he’s mad at. He guided Cas gently enough that Castiel could resist being pulled in close. Dean knew that Castiel was so strong that he could break any hold Dean cared to try, but the angel didn’t move, his blue eyes astonished, his mouth shocked open.

Dean kissed the corner of Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel stayed still, but he thrummed a little under Dean’s hands, his eyes still open and unbelieving.

“Did he do this, Cas?” Dean caressed Castiel’s face, feathering his touch over the angel’s temple, down Castiel’s cheek. “Does he touch you? Does he—”

Dean traced along the line of his jaw to tilt Cas’s chin up and took another barely there nuzzle across Castiel’s mouth, kissing with body heat and the sparkling tingle of almost touches, and Castiel sucked in a tattered breath.

Warm wetness slid along Dean’s fingers. He wiped Castiel’s tears and whispered, “He loves you, Cas. He loves you.”

Castiel grabbed a thick handful of Dean’s flannel shirt in his hand, clenched tight and desperate. He pressed into Dean’s body like he could merge them together and become one, his other hand hooked around Dean’s neck. He stood on his toes to seek Dean’s mouth with his own and pressed their lips together. The whimper he smothered against Dean’s mouth begged. Dean wiped Castiel’s tears with his thumbs, cradled his face, and guided Castiel through a first kiss.

“He loves you,” Dean whispered. “Just like this.”

*

This would always be his. He wasn’t who Castiel wanted, not really, but this would always be his--Castiel’s fingers tugging at his clothes, the relief and fervor of Castiel’s kisses, the moment an angel climbed into his lap and sucked hard on the side of his neck. Dean had thought that he would be the one to guide Castiel through each touch, but Dean found himself on his back in the narrow bed while Castiel kissed him, touched him, and left sucking kisses over his throat and collarbones until he impatiently lifted Dean by the back of his neck and stripped him of his shirt.

Castiel stopped when he saw the scar. It bisected his chest exactly, down the breastbone, a smooth pink line with the slightest scars from the staples that held it together. He traced his fingers over it, and looked at Dean.

“I was on the transplant list,” Dean said. “Hooked up to machines, waiting for someone else to die while I coded every time I sneezed. Cardiomyopathy. Turns out I’m allergic to amoxicillin.”

Castiel nodded. Bent down, and kissed it, from top to bottom. “You were going to die.”

“I was gonna die. They tried to hide it from me, but I knew. And then I got better. like a miracle.”

“You hate hospitals.”

“Hate them,” Dean agreed.

“You went to the hospital to save my grace.”

“There was never any question,” Dean said.

Castiel raised his head and looked at Dean with pure awe. “You gave that to me.”

“It was mine to give,” Dean said, and Castiel wept as he kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, his mouth. 

Dean unzipped Castiel’s borrowed jeans and pushed them off his hips. Cas grabbed Dean’s shoulder and moaned at what Dean was doing to him with firm hands and met it with eager grinding hips.

“I love you,” he gasped. “Love you so much, wanted this so bad...Love you, Dean.”

Dean kissed him and let him talk to somebody else. 

All the moans, the unraveled breaths, the bruise Castiel sucked on his neck, the frantic jerking hips and long thrust of his cock into Dean’s hand...those were his. Dean kissed him and listened to Castiel’s breaths end in short, open throated moans, watched his face slide from gorgeous agony to open mouthed bliss. Castiel glowed, a soft blue-white in a fuzzy rippling tingle that flared bright enough that Dean shut his eyes when Castiel came over his hand. Castiel shuddered and moaned _“Dean!”_ loud, with his fingers dug into Dean’s shoulders like it was his only anchor.

And Dean felt it pass through his skin, warm and electric and so good. Every nerve stood on end. He’d been focused on Cas, giving to him, but now he was so hard he needed to--

Castiel shoved him flat on his back and kissed him, and Dean managed to not scream when Castiel’s tongue circled the head of his cock only by stuffing his cum-sticky hand in his mouth and it was as bitter as he remembered. Castiel closed his lips over the head of Dean’s dick and sucked hard. Dean hissed at the scrape of teeth but it wasn’t enough to stop him from coming. Dean curled up his hips and ground his head back into the pillow and shot with noisy, relieved sighs, and oh god Castiel sucked harder, swallowed, bobbed his head deeper and Dean pulled him up because he couldn’t take any more.

“Too much,” Dean whispered, and let Castiel collapse on his chest and hold him tight.

“I love you, Dean,” he murmured. “Thank you so much.”

Dean stroked his hair. “Cas, you’re amazing.”

Castiel kissed Dean’s chest. “Have you ever--”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” Castiel rested his head over Dean’s heart and listened to it. “What happens now?”

Cas was asking him. “We fight demons,” Dean said. “It’s Pandora’s box out there. What happens now?”

“I stay with you,” Castiel said. 

“Stay with me,” Dean said. “I want you to.”


	14. no moral, no causes, no effects

Act III: Low Comedy, Empty Heroics, and Pointless Death

Dean Winchester only had half a year to live and he’d be damned if he didn’t spend every minute he could steal in an angel’s arms.

Well, he was damned anyway, so maybe that wasn’t the best phrase and he didn’t care. What mattered was Castiel and learning every inch of him, hearing every sigh, treasuring every bruise and scratch mark and bite. What mattered was waking up to wonder in Castiel’s eyes and running out of hot water in the shower even though they always vowed to be quick this time. What mattered was making every green thing in the house flourish and bloom with the small detonations of Castiel’s grace. The dusty old house felt like the happy place Dean remembered as a kid.

So Dean was going to die in November. There was no time to think about that, not when the light from the kitchen window set an aurora of golden light around Castiel while he drank sweet, milky coffee. Castiel looked up at him through the lenses of those blue glasses and smiled at him.

“Thank you, Dean. You look nice too.”

Dean would have come up with a ridiculous reason why Castiel owed him a kiss, but Sam shook his head and muttered something about them being so sweet it was revolting.

“Do you need a refill on that coffee? More toast, Sam?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, and Castiel shook his head with a warm smile. Dean found warm eggs and plenty of bacon. He cleaned up the pans and sat next to Castiel, who immediately put his hand on Dean’s knee.

Dean ate bacon with his fingers and peered at Sam’s breakfast reading. “Demonology. I’m surprised. No, really. I am.”

“Somebody’s got to do some work around here,” Sam replied.

“Oh sure, work,” Dean said. “I’ll take the lore line for a bit, why not?”

“I mean that we should go do a job,” Sam said. “You said it yourself. It’s all hands on deck out there.”

“You wanna go back to ghostbusting? We can do that,” Dean said. “Change of pace.”

Sam sighed and scrubbed his hair out of his face. It flopped back down, as usual. “I mean demons, Dean. We need to catch us a demon and start working on how to get you out of this deal.”

“No.”

“No? Dean I can’t just let you...eat cheeseburgers and screw, like that’s all she wrote.”

“That _is_ all she wrote, Sam.”

“If that’s all there is, then why is Cas still here?” Sam demanded. “Sorry Cas, but don’t you have a true timeline to get back to?”

“I told Dean that I would stay with him,” Castiel said.

“There. You see?” Dean said around a mouthful of eggs. “I did what I had to do. I stuck by you.”

“Dean--” Sam said. “I just don’t think you should give up--”

“And I’m willing to help you while you get your training wheels off and become a real hunter, but I won’t let you fuck this deal up and get yourself killed. Get me?”

“There’s got to be a way.”

“There is no way. Let it go, Sam. Find us a case. We’ll go on the road, driver picks the music, separate motel rooms, what do you say?”

Sam had a case in mind before he even started in on the badgering. "Pontiac, Illinois." He sipped coffee and spun his laptop around so Dean could peruse a collection of news articles. “Three bizarre deaths, all of them at the same school, latest one is today’s news. Campus devastated, etc."

"So what do you think, vengeful spirit?" Dean asked.

Castiel stole a piece of Dean's bacon. "Usually if the deaths all happen in a home, office, or building, it's the work of a spirit. Pontiac isn't too far. I can help drive."

"You always help drive," Sam said. "I think sometimes you like driving the best out of all of us."

"It's slow, confining, and honestly the smell of a running car isn't pleasant," Castiel said. "But there's something to be said for the space inside the Impala, doing what she was meant to do."

*

Castiel did seem to love this car. He never quite lost his smile when he was behind the wheel. Cas loved it because the other Dean loved it, Dean thought to himself, and then shoved the thought away. Driving down the highways together, listening to the driver’s music—Yeah, there was something to be said for the world that the three of them made inside it.

But there were too many memories around this car. Dean...tolerated it. It literally took bank robbery to pay for the gas. They had a ton of room and you could even catch a nap in the back seat. They could have warded a newer, more fuel-efficient car, but the trunk space couldn't be matched. If he had to be honest, Dean couldn't see the three of them hunting around the midwest in anything else. Probably Sam would pick up some other car after he was gone. Dean understood that.

It still hurt.

Dean drove until he found The Pontiac Pines, a motel that had little separated cabins and Sam shook his head. “It won’t make a difference, Dean. You guys are noisy. And that thing with the plants—”

“Bite me.”

Sam laughed and got out of the car.

Their room had a mural of a tranquil looking lake surrounded by pines over knotty pine wainscoting. The floors were linoleum, but covered with rag rugs, and the bedspreads were green and blue circles in squares.

Their room also had two beds. Dean smirked at that. Castiel shrugged out of his trench coat and hung it up on a peg. “Are you tired?” he asked, and left his shoes beside the door, aligned just so.

"No," Dean said. “At least not yet. Are you ready for bed?"

"No," Castiel said. "Listen, Dean. I think that Pontiac is visited by demons."

"Wait, you can sense them?"

"In my current state, only when they're close. Say within five hundred yards. But I felt that presence, Dean, like someone waving their fingers next to a theremin."

"I'm guessing that's not good," Dean said.

"It's not a pleasant or harmonious noise. And that's only an approximation, of course."

"Yeah. Okay, so we should get the salt?"

"Yes," Castiel said. "And for Sam as well."

"Well, this isn't how I wanted my first night with you in a bigger bed to go," Dean said, and went out.

He came back with Sam, who carried a hastily re-packed bag. “Cas. Sorry.”

“It’s tactically wise,” Castiel said, “if carnally disappointing.”

Sam laughed. "Still, I know it's not what you planned. So there's demons here? Do you know how powerful? "

"The sense I got was that I saw it, and it didn't see me."

"Could there be demon involvement going on at this school? Could it be demons killing teenagers?" Dean asked.

Castiel nodded. "Hundreds of demons were freed in Wyoming. We don't know if they escaped with a larger plan of if they're simply wandering around without any real direction."

"That might be useful to know," Sam said, and laid claim to the bed nearest the door. "How do you sense them?"

"Their corruption emanates from them.”

Sam considered that for a second. “And you can feel it.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “In my vessel, I feel it on my skin, and the feeling has a colour, a scent that gives off a noise. These terms are inaccurate, but given your limited senses I have to simplify.”

Sam let that go with a nod. “So how powerful was it?”

“It's not an indicator of their power. The presence I felt was ...typical," Castiel said. "Rank and file black-eyed minion of damnation."

“So we’ve got a run of the mill demon in Pontiac, Illinois,” Dean said. “And where there’s one, there might be more.”

"It's worth looking into," Sam said.

"I know what you're thinking and no," Dean said. "We're here for the kids at Ulysses S. Grant High School."

Sam huffed and gave Dean a frustrated look. "But if there's a demon in town, we ought to be prepared."

“Prepared,” Dean said. “Not actively seeking.”

"I have my angel blade," Castiel said. "And my grace is getting stronger much faster. I expect it's the complex emotional response triggered by lovemaking."

Dean felt his face get hot.

"Wow, okay," Sam said. "There's just...where do I begin?"

"You humans will talk plainly of pain and violence but not of pleasure and love. It's strange to feel shame for something so wonderful."

"That's just how people go, Cas. When we really like something, we hide it." Dean stroked Castiel's shoulder.

"It's backwards."

"That may be," Sam said "But you're saying that I'm kinda messing with your mojo."

"I can manage," Castiel said.

"I can...Look, if I put on headphones and play some World of Warcraft, there's...the bathroom."

*

It wasn’t like they hadn’t done this back in Sioux Falls.

Still. Dean took his time brushing his teeth and rinsing his mouth. He knew Sam was out there, headphones blasting the new Nine Inch Nails album and running around on Azeroth, doing his best not to think about what was going on in here, and—

No. Screw it. Dean wiggled around Cas and got the water in the shower running. There’s a closed door between them, with a spring lock and an agreement.

“Sam can take care of himself, Dean. It’s no different from the other efforts he’s made to grant us some privacy and freedom from distraction.”

“Was I thinking too loud?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I just know you.”

Him.

“You,” Castiel said. “How many times must I show you?”

“Maybe a couple more times,” Dean said, and tried a smile.

“Dean,” Castiel said. “You are you. The facts of you here are different.”

“And you don’t mind that.”

“I delight in that,” Castiel said, and walked him backwards into the water. “It’s not just your face, your body. I love you here, in this fold of time.”

“I get that,” Dean said.

Castiel emptied herbal smelling hotel shampoo into his hand, and Dean got down on his knees. He loved this part. Castiel wrapped strong fingers over dean’s scalp and massaged.

Dean groaned. It felt amazing. The smell of the shampoo wasn’t right; it should have been apples. But Castiel’s hands in his hair made his eyelids droop and everything else just felt far away, not anywhere near as important as the enveloping here and now tranquility of just being with Cas—

Who was still talking to him.

“I think I would love you if the facts of you were different in a third way. Or a fourth. If you were a hunter all your life or brought up to be a Man of Letters.”

Whatever that is. Dean hummed an agreeable noise.

“I love you as a carpenter. I would love you if you were an artist or a kindergarten teacher or a fireman or the proprietor of a coffee shop.”

Dean laughed.

“Those are just the details of you, not the definition. Every one of you would shine as brightly. Every one of you would draw me. Because I love you. And you don’t understand. I’ll just keep trying to show you.”

Dean kept his eyes closed and let Castiel help him to his feet. “Like you’re showing me now?”

“And every other time.”

*

They'd taken Jo's advice and gotten suits. They weren't the best fitting, but they were black and therefore suitable for nearly anything.

Dean wished it wasn't for the funeral of a kid. Dean wished that there weren't so many faces in the crowd who just looked so weary of everything going wrong, of all the unnatural death, of wondering if this would be the last one.

Robinson and Sons Memorial Services had a reception room as neutral and calming as any hotel. It felt like a hotel - printed carpet, pot lights in the ceiling, a recess to hold the accordioned movable wall in case the space had to be split into two rooms for smaller receptions. This funeral had a crowd of teenagers attending. Possibly the entire senior class, the routine of finals completely shattered by tragedy. He got curious looks from teenage girls. Well, all three of them were getting curious looks.

Dean found himself with a cup of coffee and the attention of Emma Garfield (senior, cheerleader, blonde, blue) who said, "I still can't believe he's gone," for the fourteenth time. "You're right, you know. How can God let things like this happen?"

"That's what I keep asking myself," Dean agreed. And he asked it even more now that he knew for a fact that there was one. He wanted to know why an omnipotent, omnipresent being could build a world and have it be so fucked up.

"I can't believe that ...." She went silent. Dean just waited. "It's crazy." 

"Hey, I've seen a lot of crazy stuff. Been there for some crazy stuff."

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Oh bingo. "Jury's still out, like the God thing. Why? Do you feel like... I don't know. Like something's watching?"

She nodded vigorously. "And that it hates me. Did you know Ulysses is haunted?"

"Is it?"

"I think that it's Bloody Mary."

That was interesting. "Why do you call the ghost Bloody Mary?"

"She hanged herself in the girl's locker room. In front to the makeup mirrors. and I think someone called her out."

"By looking in the mirror and saying the words three times?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense," Emma said. "When all possibilities are eliminated what remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the truth. I can't stop thinking that."

"Been there," Dean replied. “Do you know, Mary’s suicide--did she leave a note to explain why she did it?”

“No,” Emma said. “We know all about her. She’s the reason why Ulysses has a Stand Up to Bullies campaign. She killed herself because she was—”

Dean watched her snatch back the callous words she was going to say. “Unpopular. She was, you know, not pretty, and I guess the other kids were hard on her.”

“Okay, so if you’re right, and it’s the ghost of Mary Darling, do her targets fit with bullies?”

Emma frowned in disapproval. “No. She’s killing the _popular_ kids. The ones with lots of friends and no problems. It’s because she’s jealous.”

Emma found someone else to talk to. Dean wandered over to where Sam stood with another young girl, who seemed—

Dean couldn’t put his finger on it, so he hung back and tried to figure it out.

She was a pretty girl. But she slouched in on herself and she looked like she was trying to hide behind the side swept bangs that flopped in front of her eye, and cut off smiles like she didn’t want to call attention to her teeth.

“--And make real friends,” Sam said. “Four quarters are better than a hundred pennies.”

Advice, huh? Interesting.

“It’s hard to make friends,” the girl said, and her eyes widened as she glanced at Dean and looked again.

Dean smiled. “Hi. I’m Dean.”

“Christina Lundsted,” the girl said. “You must be Sam’s brother.”

“Yeah, I overheard a bit. Where did you get accepted?”

“Stanford—”

“Sammy went to Stanford,” Dean said.

“Yes, he told me. Taking a break before deciding what branch of law to go into.”

“Are you interested in becoming a lawyer?”

“A surgeon,” she said.

Dean smiled. “I bet you’d make a great surgeon.”

She smiled again and slid her lips over her teeth. “Thank you. That’s really nice to say even though you don’t have any evidence.”

Dean gave a small smile. “You have a point. It’s nice to meet you, Christina.”

“Dean, I think we’d better get going or I’m going to eat the whole buffet.”

“I hear you,” Dean said. “Pry Castiel loose, Biggerson’s is calling.”

“Dean?”

Dean blinked and looked at the surprised face of Lisa Braeden.

“Lisa?”

She gave him a big hug. “What are you doing here? Hi, Christina.”

“Hello, Miss Braeden,” Christina said, watching between the two of them.

“It’s a long story,” Dean said. “You’re teaching here? In Pontiac?”

“English Literature,” Lisa said. “Christina is one of my students.”

“Probably one of your best students,” Dean said. “Listen, Sam and I were just about to go, like I said it’s a long story—”

Christina faded with a couple of steps backwards and melted into the crowd.

“You’ll have to tell me about it,” Lisa said. “I’m not letting you leave town without taking me to dinner.”

Ah. “Well, I don’t know how long we’re going to be here—”

“Then it had better be tonight,” Lisa said, and her fingers brushed down his sleeve.

“Well, we were just going to grab something at Biggerson’s—”

“Oh no,” Lisa said. “Forget it. I remember how much you love cheeseburgers. You want to go to the Silk Hat Diner.”

The Silk Hat had a sign that proclaimed that it had been established in 1944 and Dean loved it on sight. It was a long, narrow space that looked like a place that Edward Hopper would have painted - at least, the bones of it did.

The left wall was all dining booths, the tables covered in white cloths. The bar was the old dining lunch counter, now a long slab of pressure glued pine, heavily varnished. Oxblood leather replaced red vinyl on the seats. The floor was probably the original parquet.

Dean loved it. He envied it. He’d never get a chance to do anything like it. The thought soured his mood, and he let Sam take the lead when the hostess took them to their seats.

But then Lisa took the spot next to him when they were seated, and Castiel wouldn't let Dean catch his eye.

“So,” Sam said, once Castiel was settled beside him. “How do you two know each other?”

"Lisa took her education degree in Milwaukee," Dean explained. "Back in..."

"Tell them and I won't forgive you," she said at the same time Dean said, "2000."

He looked at Lisa, grinned and shrugged. "Whoops."

"Ah well, Not much I could do. So you're Sam," Lisa said. "I heard a lot about you." She looked at Castiel curiously, but he was drinking water and couldn't answer.

"Castiel I met recently," Dean said. "After a pool tournament back in 2005." Lying with the truth. He was getting glib.

"It's nice to meet you, Castiel." Lisa smiled and couldn't wait to turn her attention back to Dean. "What brings you to Pontiac?"

"We're kind of here at random," Dean said. "I guess because of a conversation we had about destiny and the nature of the universe and the question of God."

"That's rather more philosophical than I remember you being," Lisa said.

"I was twenty-one," Dean scoffed, and opened a menu.

He nodded. Lisa was never really one for family style dining, preferring a higher level of ambience, service, and cuisine. But the prices weren't too bad. She probably affectionately referred to the place as a dive.

And that was the story of him and Lisa - she wanted French Vietnamese fusion with a fine wine; he wanted a cheeseburger, fries, and a beer. She leaned into him now, but they hadn’t got much past every Saturday night. Castiel just slid his eyes right past him, looking at the lighting effects and the warm chocolate and copper walls.

Lisa kept up talk with Sam, who’d asked her about teaching English lit to high school students. When she got around to asking him what he was doing taking a break before starting law school, Sam had already had an answer.

“There’s a lot of injustice done to student victims that goes unanswered because of school discipline,” Sam said. “I had a friend. A good friend. Another scholarship student.” He looked down at his plate. “Something bad happened to her, and the way the school handled it, she dropped out. I was—well, I wasn’t as tall as I am now. I got picked on for being good at school.”

“Sammy was a mathlete,” Dean said.

Sam shot him a slightly annoyed face. “Bullying’s a serious problem.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Lisa said. “I have the most ridiculous policies to follow as part of the school’s anti-bullying stance - which doesn’t work, by the way.”

“And I heard at the funeral that your school pioneered anti-bullying because of a student suicide.”

“Mary Darling,” Lisa said. “The school’s gone wild with stories about her with all these deaths. Ghosts.”

“You think there’s any truth to it?”

Lisa looked at Dean. “Since when did you start thinking there was a truth to ghosts?”

Dean shrugged. “I renovate old houses. I’ve seen some weird shit.” All true, taken separately.

Lisa got quiet. “I just don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder. I get papers turned in about the ghost of Bloody Mary all year long, but it’s skyrocketed. I fully expect all of my final creative papers to be about ghosts and monsters, Mary in particular.”

“But you’re not sure there’s nothing to it,” Sam noted.

“Put it this way,” Lisa said. “I didn’t remember my sophomore final essays when I left school this afternoon for the memorial service, and even though I have keys and access, I’m not going back there tonight.”

“What if we came with you?” Dean asked.

Dean took the check and wouldn’t let anyone look at it. He slipped five twenties into the bill folder and helped Lisa into her coat, opening the door for her as they stepped outside.

“Sam?”

Now it was Sam’s turn to look surprised. “Christina,” he said with a smile of greeting. “I didn’t expect to run into you. Is that a viola?”

Christina looked pleased at this guess. “Yes. I have lessons at the Jackson Center. I didn’t expect to meet you either. Or ever again. Unless you still live in Palo Alto and—”

Sam smiled. “I understand,” he said, and she looked so relieved Dean’s heart hurt for her. Sam was too old for her, but the power of a crush— a little girlish fascination was a delicate thing. Sam had a tightrope to walk. Dean was glad it wasn’t him.

“Walk me to my car?” Lisa asked.

“Uh, sure,” Dean said. Oh yeah. He had his own awkwardness. Lisa took his elbow, just like she did when they dated. She barely got out of earshot before she said, “You never married.”

“No,” Dean said. “I probably won’t get married.”

“Are you involved?”

“Very much so,” Dean said, and Lisa’s shoulders fell.

“Damn. I couldn’t get you out of my head, Dean Winchester. When I saw you I thought, maybe—”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “Not many book loving carpenters out there, is there.”

“I haven’t met another.”

“What kind of carpenters are they turning out these days?” Dean smiled at her, but looked back to where he’d left Cas, Sam, and Christina. 

Lisa watched him. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean reached out for her hand. “It’s been a weird day. We’ll meet you at the school?”

“One question before you go,” Lisa said. “How’s your brother with vulnerable teenagers?”

“He’s interested in children’s rights.”

Lisa nodded. “Well hopefully he handles Christina alright. She hasn’t grown into her transformation yet.”

That stopped Dean. “Transformation?”

“Yeah. Christina looked very different a month ago,” Lisa said. “She got her braces off and got contact lenses, the hair, the clothes, the makeup, it’s all new.”

So that’s what it was. “Sam’s weathered more than one crush,” Dean said. “Besides, we won’t be staying long.”

“Hey!”

Dean looked up. “Speak of the devil.”

“Lisa, is it alright if I ride with you?” Sam asked. “I wouldn’t normally, but—Christina, she’s one of your students? Do you mind if I ask you a couple of things?”

“I’d wonder why,” Lisa said.

“I think she’s a victim of bullying.”

Lisa nodded. “Get in.”

Dean took the stairs up to the level where they parked the Impala. Castiel was already inside, motor running, no music. An open map lay in the center of the front bench seat. Dean slid into the passenger seat, and said, “Cas—”

“I know you’re uncomfortable Dean. You don’t have to talk about it.”

Castiel’s jaw was set, his lips thin and pinched.

“Cas,” Dean said. “I hate lies and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not--” Castiel shook his head. “I didn’t know how much I would regret taking a male vessel.”

Dean stared at Castiel, open-mouthed. “You thought—Lisa’s in the past, Cas. Well past.”

“Then what did you lie about?”

“I could have just introduced you as my boyfriend.”

“Am I?”

“Unless you don’t want to be, I just thought…”

Castiel swatted the map to the floor, slid over to the passenger side of the Impala, and shut him up with a kiss that had him wishing they were in the back seat. Preferably in the middle of nowhere, under the light of all the stars.

Maybe someone could see them necking in the dark car park, but Dean didn’t care. He kissed Castiel and grabbed at the angel’s shoulders. A happy murmur rumbled from his throat as Castiel opened his mouth and had Dean wanting to wiggle out of his pants and go for a quick one, urgent and as quiet as he could possibly be. He wanted Cas now, right here, never mind Sammy’s bitching on the way back to the motel about them being late. He wanted Cas grinding up into his mouth with his hands on Dean’s head, telling him exactly how he belonged to an angel.

Dean wished Cas could claim his soul. He’d give it in a breath.

Castiel sat up and looked at Dean, breathing fast. Dean leaned in for another kiss but Castiel put his hand up.

“I wanted to smite her.”

Dean sat up straight and listened. “For?”

“Taking my seat by your side. Touching you, acting like she knew your inner being. Laughing and walking down the street attached to you as if you weren’t _mine,_ ” Castiel said.

“Okay, that’s not like you,” Dean said. “Save that for our shower tonight. I’ll tell Sam to put his headphones in, extra loud.”

“I shouldn’t feel like this,” Castiel said, and shook his head as if trying to clear it.

“Angels aren’t possessive?”

“Now that I have you?” He smiled at Dean, crooked and so charming Dean wanted to kiss him all over again. “This angel is possessive. But I’m too angry. Too far out of control. I felt so much anger at her.”

“Maybe it’s because your grace is still low enough that you’re close to human?” He’d mussed up Castiel’s hair. He tried to comb it back into order with his fingers.

Castiel caught his hand and held it. “Dean. I don’t really sleep when I lie next to you in bed. I only need a little to eat. I have to make an effort to block out your thoughts again.”

“Can you zap? Maybe you should, to get your grace back.”

“I said I wouldn’t leave you,” Castiel said.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Maybe we…shit, I have to get it together. If you knew what I wanted—”

“I do,” Castiel said. “Later.” The angel retrieved the map of Pontiac from the floor and handed it to Dean. “Navigate.”

*

Ulysses S. Grant High School was an ugly, many times expanded building with a digital billboard facing the street that flashed "GO GENERALS!" The parking lot was empty, the building dark. Castiel pulled up beside Lisa's Toyota Pathfinder and got out, nodding to her.

"I got lost," he said. "It took a while for us to get back on track."

Dean would stick with that story.

Lisa smiled at him and stepped back from where she'd been standing close to Sam. "Sam and I had a lot to talk about," Lisa said. "He's got a sharp eye, and I've got a much better idea of how I might be able to help Christina."

"Good," Dean said. "That's good. So how far to your classroom?"

"All the way across the building," Lisa said.

"Well. That sounds awesome. In the dark and everything," Dean said.

Castiel opened the trunk and Dean just about swallowed his tongue, but Lisa couldn't see what was inside from where she was standing. So long as he didn't prop the trunk open with a rifle...

"Christina's definitely being bullied,” Sam said.

“Shit.”

“And the school treats as bullying as physical threats and violence," Sam continued.

"So it's not abuse unless they hit you. That's great," Dean said, and took a duffel bag from Castiel. It was a prepacked kit - salt and iron, charm bags, chalk, grease pencil, and holy water. No guns. Dean prayed to Castiel's dad that he didn't need to shoot anybody.

“If there was an vengeful spirit, these accidents might center on a current victim’s tormentors,” Castiel said. “The victims would all be connected to one person.”

“That sound like Christina and the victims?”

Lisa led the way across the parking lot, her keys in her hand. “Davis manipulated Christina into doing his homework for him. I would have failed him out of my class but I couldn’t do that without applying equal punishment to Christina.”

“And Heather Montgomery?” Dean asked.

“When Christina walked into school with her new look, Heather…laughed at her. So other kids did too.”

“And Josh White?”

“Circulated a poll asking who was Miss Butterface of Ulysses,” Lisa said. “Christina was on it.”

That’s all of them,” Dean muttered.

“How do you know about the other kids who died?”

“The funeral.” Dean followed Lisa to the door, past flyers stapled to the wall. He stopped short at the pattern that his eye and mind didn't expect - the same image, repeated in a sequence that would always make him think of Warhol.

"Oh, my god," Lisa said, and Dean stared at the same image:

A school photograph of a girl.

It had to be Christina before her transformation, and his heart ached - she had braces, all right, complete with headgear. She wore thick lensed glasses that made her eyes huge. Her face was bracketed by that indeterminate not-blonde, not-brown hair that was parted down the middle and wavy enough to fly upwards in frizzy disarray. Dean just wanted to find that girl and walk her to every class she had until she escaped this hellhole.

The photograph was captioned _We'll never forget you Christina! (how could we?)_ There were thirty of them on the walls that he could see, and he'd barely made it inside the door.

"Lisa," Sam said. "This is--"

"I think I'm going to quit my job," Lisa said. "How _could_ they."

"By the time they get to high school it's too late," Sam said. "Who's going to get expelled for this?"

Lisa’s voice was bent under unshed tears. "Trust me, Sam. No one will know anything about anything."

Sam didn’t miss a beat. "Who _should_ get expelled for this?"

"Emma Garfield," Lisa said. "She's on the yearbook committee. The entire cheerleading squad right along with her, and probably a few of their athlete boyfriends."

"So no one will know anything about anything," Dean said. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I can make a few calls, but there's no way all of these will be taken down before the doors open in the morning." Lisa covered her mouth and shook her head. “Oh, my God.”

"If you called Christina's parents, would they keep her home from school?" Sam asked.

"Christina is in line for the Grant Achievement Bursary," Lisa said. "It requires perfect attendance."

She hurried away, heels echoing down the postered corridor. Sam followed after her, leaving Castiel and Dean alone.

"Fuck. _Fuck_!" Dean swore. "This isn't fair. That poor kid."

"I will take these down, Dean." Castiel said. He walked over to the wall and started ripping down the notices. He didn't bother with the staples, just took down the pages. "Some of them only have a few staples in them. I'll stay all night if I have to. I’ll use my power. All of these will be gone before the first student gets here."

"But your grace--"

"I have to," Castiel said. "This is the kind of thing that commits a soul to darkness, Dean. No one jumps over the precipice. Every last one of them was pushed."

*

Dean left Castiel methodically tearing down posters and found the gymnasium. He went into the women’s locker room bearing a home-made EMF meter - a simple bit of electronics to alter a battery powered radio to listen for signal. He scanned the locker room and the meter didn’t do much more than crackle.

He stepped out and carried the scanner down a hallway cleared of flyers. Castiel was nowhere in sight. He walked back out to the corridor. Castiel had been there - no flyers of Christina rested on the walls. He looked up at signs labeling what was in each wing, and found the one that said _Literature and Language_. The spill of light from one of the classrooms guided his steps.

“Okay, time to go,” he said, and Lisa held up her hand. She spoke into the phone. “She’s not there? She didn’t come home after viola practice?”

Dean looked at Sam, who looked grim. Dean walked back out to the corridor and Sam followed.

“No EMF in the girl’s locker room,” Dean said.

“She might have died somewhere else.”

“That’s what I thought. Cas is going great guns on those posters. If anyone can take them down in time it’s him.”

Sam nodded. “That’ll help the battle. Lisa’s going to reach out to Christina. Maybe we should just find out where Mary Darling is buried, and burn her bones.”

Fuck but he hated messing with corpses. But they had to clear this ghost before anyone else got killed.

Lisa walked out with a couple of folders in her hands. “Where’s Castiel?”

_Cas, are you close?_

Castiel walked out of the darkness. “I’m here,” he said. “I started taking down flyers. I couldn’t just leave them.”

“I’m trying to arrange to meet Christina and walk with her to her class. I have her first thing in the morning,” Lisa said.

“I’ll come back tomorrow and meet her for lunch,” Sam said.

“Careful with that,” Dean said.

“I know,” Sam said, and Dean believed him.

“We should get back to the hotel,” Castiel said, and handed Dean the keys. “It’s your turn to drive, I think.”

Castiel zapped out of the car after Lisa was out of sight. Sam looked out the window and said, “It’s all centered on her, isn’t it.”

“I think so,” Dean said. “This started because of what’s happening to her.”

“Lisa told me that people started dying after she came back with her new look,” Sam said. “What do you think?”

“I think teenagers are dicks,” Dean said.

“The Cinderella story is all over our culture, Dean. It practically drives our economy. Have the right look, the right clothes, the right brands, and you’ll be accepted. She probably believed in it as hard as anybody else. ”

“It’s bullshit,” Dean said.

Sam snorted. “Easy for you to say, Dean. You’ve got 20/20 vision and your teeth are straight and you grew up good looking. You don’t know what it’s like to be Christina.”

“And you do?”

“A bit,” Sam said. “Only I got tall and Krav Maga made me fit, and it’s not nearly as hard on guys. And going away to a school where I didn’t know anyone gave me a chance, Dean, and it would give her a chance too, if she wasn’t—”

“Haunted?”

“Yeah.”

“If Mary Darling was cremated I’m going to kick something,” Dean said. “Twice.” 

They made it back to the Pontiac Pines, and Christina Lundsted was sitting on the porch of the little cabin they’d booked. She stood up and dusted off the back of her skirt as the Impala pulled up and Dean parked. Sam got out and the girl rushed toward him, stopping short just as she got inside arm’s length.

“Christina,” Sam said. “We were looking for you.”

“I was looking for you,” Christina said. She smiled, and then looked away.

“Well, you found me,” Sam said.

“I think we have some hot chocolate mix inside,” Dean said, and Christina looked at him as if she only just realized that he was there.

“I kind of wanted to talk to Sam alone,” she said.

“Sam?”

“Let’s have a hot chocolate first,” Sam said. “Did you drive here?”

“I took the bus.”

“I can drive you home,” Sam said, and Christina smiled. Dean gave Sam a _what the hell are you doing_ look but Sam ignored it.

 _Sam, you idiot,_ Dean thought, and then wondered how they’d explain salt on the windowsills. He gritted his teeth and followed.

“I think I’m going to go to Stanford,” Christina said.

“Good,” Sam replied, and let her into the darkened hotel room, Dean close on Christina’s heels.

“Have a seat,” Dean said, and held the chair out for her. She took it, and then reached up to twirl her hair. She stared at her finger when her now fashionably cut hair didn’t behave the way she expected, and looked back at Dean. 

“Did you go to Stanford too, Dean?”

“I didn’t,” Dean said. “I build houses.”

“You’re an architect?”

“No, I mean I literally build houses,” Dean said. “Renovations, usually. I leave the brainy stuff to Sammy.”

“Oh.” Christina looked uncertain. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Dean said. “I’ve always liked making stuff. I didn’t get the kind of grades Sam got. He got a scholarship. We didn’t grow up with money.”

“Careful, it’s hot,” Sam came back with two mugs of hot chocolate. Christina touched her finger to the side of her mug and didn’t pick it up.

“Were you popular, Dean? In school.”

“Naw,” Dean said. “I had friends, but that one clique, you know the one, they don’t care for poor kids much. Keeping up with the Joneses, it’s expensive.”

“But they didn’t…try to hurt you.”

“No,” Dean said. “They picked on Sam, though. He was a shrimp until junior year, and then he was a beanpole until senior year.”

“So you understand, Sam.”

“Some,” Sam said. “It’s hard. But it gets better.”

Christina laughed, bitterly. “When?”

“When you leave them behind,” Sam said. “College sometimes works.”

“Sometimes. Maybe. I’m so tired of that.”

“I know,” Dean said. “It’s just a couple more weeks, and you’re out.”

“Stanford,” Christina said. “Pre-med.”

“It’s hard work, and the assholes, the jocks, they’ll be there. But you can be invisible to them.”

“I don’t want to be invisible,” Christina said. “Why do I have to settle for being unseen while they rule?”

She picked up her hot chocolate and Dean caught Sam’s tension as he watched her drink it. One swallow, two.

Christina dropped the mug and tried to scream around gagging and choking, knocked over her chair as she fought to breathe.

Shit.

“Dean she’s possessed,” Sam yelled, and Dean caught a glimpse of black eyes as Sam shot her with a water pistol, herding her into the room. Sam started reciting the rite of exorcism.

Christina went quiet and stared at Sam, smirking. She lifted the hem of her skirt and revealed the binding. It was fresh, the skin raw and only just starting to scab over.

“Save your breath, sweetie, you know the drill,” the demon said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not,” Dean agreed. 

“Just let her go,” Sam said. “She didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

“Ohh, yes she did,” the demon said. “Oh did she ever. She made a wish, Sam, all I did was grant it. She said yes to me. She gave herself over so she could get revenge on every mean little boy and girl who hurt her.”

“So you killed them.” Sam looked disgusted.

 _Cas,_ Dean thought desperately. _It’s Christina, she’s possessed by a demon._

“And when she was sad that the big handsome man she met didn’t sweep her off her feet, she made another wish. Why not? I granted the last three.”

Light blazed. Wingbeats sounded.

Castiel stood in the midst of radiance, angel blade in hand, his eyes glowing blue white with power. He was beautiful and terrible, and the shadow of his wings loomed across the room.

But he wore his glasses.

The demon smirked. “Really? A threat display? Against me? You don’t have the juice, little angel. Hell, you’ve barely got your wings. Are those _glasses?_ You’re adorable.”

The angel blade glinted. “Quit this girl’s body or face judgment.”

“What are you gonna do, kill her? I don’t think so,” the demon said.

The door burst open, and a woman said, “Try me, Abbas.”

The demon whirled. 

“You,” it said.

The newcomer was dressed like a hunter. Heavy, sturdy boots, relaxed jeans held up with a wide leather belt, buffalo plaid jacket over a plain black t-shirt. She held a sawed off shotgun in her left hand and a wicked, curving blade in her right.

She rushed the demon, who smoked out before she took two steps.

Christina collapsed. Sam rushed to her side.

“Save your tears, Sam,” the strange woman said. “She made the pact. She’s a witch now.”

“Who are you?” Sam demanded. “How do you know my name? Are you a hunter?”

“She’s a demon too,” Castiel said.

Sam raised the squirtgun, and the demon huffed. “Really? I’m the demon who just saved your teenage tragedy’s worthless life.” She flipped the knife in her hand, caught it, and slipped the blade into a thigh sheath. She pointed at Castiel. “And you are low on batteries, little angel. If you weren’t cut off from Head Office I wouldn’t be within a mile of you. Ten miles.”

Castiel didn’t put his blade away. “You are who I sensed yesterday.”

“I was following you three.”

“Why?” Sam said. “Who are you?”

“Because I know all about you, Sam, and your brother too. And I’m the one who knows how to save Dean’s bacon from sizzling in hell.”

She waggled her fingers in farewell. “We’ll talk more later,” she said, and walked out.

“Let her go,” Castiel said, when Dean moved to follow.

“Did this happen too, Cas?” Dean asked. “Do we team up with a demon?”

Cas grimaced. “She did just save you both from becoming suspects in the murder of a troubled teenage girl,” he said.

“You know who she is,” Dean persisted.

Castiel let out a gusty sigh. “I know who she is,” Castiel said. “And we have other matters to attend to.”

Christina stayed unconscious through the examination, even though she screamed until Castiel lifted his hand from her chest. “It’s true. She gave her soul for this. She’s a witch.”

“So what, she made a deal?”

“She pledged eternal service to the demon Abbas. She asked for the power to commit murder, and carried it out three times.”

“She’s just a kid,” Dean said.

“She has the power to do it again. Even if she vows not to. The corruption is in her, the claim on her soul sealed.” Castiel shook his head. “She can’t be saved.”

“So what do we do?”

Castiel looked sad. “Leave it to me.”


	15. no beginning, no middle, no end

They didn’t play much music on the drive home. Castiel drove in silence, and Dean had given up trying to get him to talk somewhere around Oglesby. But when it was Sam’s turn to drive Castiel tugged on Dean’s jacket and they wound up in the back of the Impala with Castiel using Dean’s thigh as a pillow and his trenchcoat as a blanket.

Sam glanced at Dean through the rear view mirror and drove past their trade-off point in Webster City, past the diner where Sam had disappeared (”closed for renovations,” the sign said.) He motioned at Dean to stay when he pulled into a Gas n’ Sip to fill up, and he brought Dean a pair of apple pie pockets, kept warm and gooey with sugary filling.

They were back in Sioux Falls the next day. Bobby looked at Castiel squinting through his glasses, the three of them slump-shouldered and quiet.

“You weren’t wearing those glasses when you left.”

“I need them now.”

Dean kept his head down. Sam shifted in his seat. 

Bobby watched them a little longer, and sighed. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

He left them in the living room, slumped out on the worn velour of the ancient sofa. Sam and Dean sat one to either side of Castiel, who held Sam’s hand and leaned heavily on Dean.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel rubbed at his eyes and let the glasses settle back crooked. “I wish we hadn’t been too late.”

“We were too late as soon as we heard about the case,” Dean said. “She _was_ the case. Damn it.”

He petted Castiel’s hair and let Cas melt into his side. “Grilled cheese, Cas?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know,” Dean said. “Grilled cheese and beer?”

“Okay.”

Dean had to coax Castiel to eat half the sandwich and to not have a fourth bottle. Dean played the nature shows Castiel liked best until it was time to herd him up the stairs. He had to steer Castiel through their night routine and into their narrow bed, where Castiel wound around Dean with arms and legs and Dean stroked over the dryer-static energy that rayed from the angel’s back. He tried to stop thinking about how faint it felt.

When Dean closed his eyes, he dreamed of Vik.

The sky was dark with stormclouds, silver and heavy charcoal. The black sand was wet with a high tide. Castiel stood beside him, face turned up to the terrible sky, and wept.

“Cas. Are we—”

“I won’t leave you,” Castiel said. “I promise that I won’t. I won’t leave you to face it alone. I promise, Dean.”

“Hey, none of that,” Dean said. “Come on, come here.”

Castiel backed away from Dean’s reach. “How can you just—” Castiel swiped at his face and rain fell. “I can’t save you either. And you comfort me. Soothe me. Make me eat something and rub my back until I fall into mortal sleep. Like I deserve any solace.”

“It’s mine to give, Cas,” Dean said. “I need to do what I can. And I can do this.”

They stood together in the rain so long Dean was surprised to wake up dry and too-warm and alone, listening to a shower.

He got up and knocked. “Sammy?”

“Snooze you lose, Dean,” Sam hollered back.

“Bitch,” he muttered, and went downstairs in search of Castiel.

Bobby and Castiel sat at the table in the dining room. Castiel had on headphones and browsed a big book of landscape paintings. Bobby hunched over his good laptop with tab after tab open. He consulted one, scribbled in one of his books - no, that was his hunter’s journal - and then look at another.

“Morning Bobby.”

“Oh good, you’re up,” Bobby said, and handed Dean an empty coffee cup. “Saves me having to break my concentration.”

“Do you want breakfast, too?”

“Castiel said he wanted French Toast,” Bobby said. “Bread’s laying out on the counter.”

Dean sniffed the pot and called out, “It’s scorched.”

“Pour it and make another pot, I don’t mind.”

Dean flipped the bread over and let it dry a little more, put some eggs out on the counter, and came back with Bobby’s coffee.

“Thanks, boy. Tell Castiel when he comes up for air that I need him to rob another bank. And I thought casting silver bullets was expensive," Bobby grumbled.

Castiel pulled the headphones off his ears and blinked. “What about me?”

“I’m pricing out materials for new bullets,” Bobby said. “How’s the music?”

“It’s effective,” Castiel said. “What material do you need?”

Dean peered over his shoulder at the web page Bobby was reading. "Meteorites?"

"The Colt was crafted from the iron from a meteor. Found that in my notes on the work of Samuel Colt," Bobby said. "Stands to reason that replacing the bullets is going to take more of the same."

"I believe that this is accurate," Castiel said. "Angel blades are...impossible to manufacture here, but the core of them are star-matter sung into shape."

"I'm not casting any of this stuff until I'm certain of the rest of it," Bobby said. "I've got feelers out for more of Samuel Colt's journals in case anyone wants to trade copies."

"Anything we can do to help?" Dean asked.

"Yes.” Bobby took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Travel through time and be in Russia in 1947."

Dean made a face. "Funny."

“In different circumstances, I could actually do that,” Castiel said.

Sam walked in, his hair curling in wet-combed strands. “Do what?”

“Acquire us some meteoric iron through time travel.”

“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” Dean said. “There’s still plenty of cash in the bag.”

Sam spoke up. "Maybe Ruby--"

"No.”

“But Dean—”

Dean got up from the table. “What part of 'demon' needs repeating?"

“Demon?” Bobby asked.

“Long story,” Dean said.

“She wants to help us,” Sam said.

“Ruby wants to help _Ruby_ ,” Dean cut in. “No matter the benefit to us, we’re helping her cause. And we don’t know what that cause is. And she’s a demon.”

“I think it’s time you boys start explaining how you met a demon on a ghost hunt, came back haunted, and— oh yeah. Why you let one of those black eyed sons of bitches walk away.”

“She rescued us,” Sam said.

“She left us a hell of a mess,” Dean interrupted.

“We wouldn’t have trusted her if she killed Christina.” Sam said. “And we would have had our faces and our car as part of a witness statement after one of our hotel rooms became a crime scene.”

“Sam has a point,” Castiel said. “She acted on your wishes, not her knowledge.”

“And look what it did to you,” Dean said.

“I think,” Castiel said, “That we ought to tell Bobby what happened in Pontiac.”

“Witches,” Bobby swore. “Balls.”

“We didn’t think of it,” Sam said. “They’re rare.”

“Were rare,” Bobby said. “But with this many demons loose? We might expect a population explosion.”

“This could get messy,” Dean said.

Bobby opened up another browser tab. “I better spread the word. We could be looking at whole covens before long.”

“More tragedies like Christina,” Sam said.

“Don’t get like that,” Bobby said. “Don’t get dewy eyed over witches. The pacts they make with demons make them powerful, even as fledglings. They’re harder to kill, the older they get, and they can get _old._ ”

“They start out human,” Sam said.

“So do vampires and werewolves.” Dean put his coffee cup down. “And most of those were duped into becoming monsters. It doesn’t matter how they were pushed.”

“It gets worse,” Bobby said. “Witches usually live among us. Cleanup after icing one is more complicated than hunting a monster.”

“So. Powerful, hard to kill, live as citizens. Great,” Sam said. “That’s just great.”

“If you can kill the demon they hold a pact with, their power diminishes.”

“It doesn’t disappear?” Dean asked.

“Since we haven’t discussed the shades of gray in hunting lately,” Bobby said. “That knack you have for hoodoo charms is the same power a witch has, only magnified.”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it on what he was going to protest. Bobby nodded at him and went on.

“Sam’s talent for ritual magic? Same thing.”

It took a glare to keep Sam from uttering more than, “But--!”

“The seed of that kind of magic is in a lot of people, boys. Only imagine you’re eight hundred years old and you’ve forgot more about spells than most hunters ever learn. Only imagine you’ve got a slice of the power of Hell behind you.”

“So we’re hunting demons _and_ witches.” Dean said. “That’s just great. Who wants bacon?”

Once Sam got an idea in his head he wouldn’t let it go, and he was an Olympic level pest once he got his teeth into something. He kept it up for weeks, arguing about why they should summon Ruby and find out if she could help them develop new ammo. Dean kept saying no. Bobby asked questions, and nodded when Sam provided solutions. Castiel stayed pensive. Dean gave him a look and asked if he was being vetoed by time travel, and Castiel said, "It didn't quite happen this way, but..." and that was it.

There were only two places on the grounds of Singer Auto where you could summon a demon, after the incident with Meg nearly killing them. "No demons in the house," Bobby said, when Sam wanted to set up the circles in the cellar. They were "out in the yard," a flat concrete pad that Bobby used as a patio and grill area in good weather.

Sam had drawn a summoning circle and a devil's trap right next to it. The concrete square demon-safe, though they'd have awfully hot feet trying to move off the area. Bobby had salted the ground with iron shot, and had sprinkled goofer dust around the boundary. He mixed the herbs and components with ease, and Dean thought uncomfortably about what Bobby had said about their use of magic.

“Witches do this,” Dean said.

“They do,” Castiel confirmed. “But it’s the reasons why they do it that makes the difference. Hoodoo priests cure and curse, and they’re not witches. Or damned.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Using crossing powder to frustrate your rivals’ attempts to hurt you means that those who mean you no harm won’t be harmed. Using magic to kill someone in revenge is a step into darkness that can’t be cleansed,” Castiel says.

“Hey, I’m about to start chanting in Latin,” Sam said, and lit the brazier. “Can we have quiet from the audience?”

“Boys, pipe down, Sam’s ready for his close-up,” Bobby had a shotgun cradled in the crook of his elbow, and he lifted his cap off his head and put it back on, the brim shading his vision. “Go ahead, boy.”

Sam smirked and dropped the first powder into the brazier and began the chant.

Ruby appeared in the summoning circle. Gone was the hunting attire in favor of a round collared blouse and skinny pants with high heeled shoes, her hair braided in a crown.

“Really, guys?” She started, but then shivered. “Okay, make it quick. What do you want?”

“For you to take a few steps to your right, first of all.”

Ruby glared at Dean, pointing a long pastel pink nail at him. “That was your idea.”

“In one,” Dean said. “Glad you figured that out.”

She huffed and she scowled, but she stepped into the devil’s trap. “All right. Now what do you want?”

“We need to make more bullets for Samuel Colt’s gun,” Sam said.

“You do,” Ruby agreed. “You don’t happen to have a completed bullet, do you?”

“We put the last one in the Yellow-Eyed Demon’s heart,” Dean said. “So sorry. Fresh out.”

“His name was Azazel,” Ruby said.

“Oh well pardon me,” Dean said.

“Just FYI,” Ruby shrugged. “First of all you need the right metal. Iron from a meteor.”

“Well aren’t you useful,” Bobby said.

“Good for you, researching before asking questions,” Ruby said. “You the maker?”

Bobby gave her a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m more of a gunsmith than these three.”

“We’ll need a space out of the weather,” Ruby said. “You have anywhere that isn’t filthy with iron?”

“I thought we said no demons in the house,” Dean muttered.

“I promise to claw the furniture and knock the plants over,” Ruby said, sweetly.

Sam set Ruby down on the front porch. “I think you can make it from here.”

“Still sweet of you to carry me over all that buckshot, Sam,” Ruby said, and re-tucked her blouse. “Good job demon-proofing the joint. The whole place makes my skin crawl.”

“Likewise,” Dean said, and Ruby blew him a kiss before walking into the house. Dean tried to follow, but Sam grabbed his arm.

“She’s helping us, Dean. Could you maybe—”

“Maybe what, Sam, calm down?” Dean pointed at the blonde in their front room. “She’s a demon. She’s like a water pitcher made out of uranium glass. And she’s _in our house._ ”

“Let him be, Sam,” Ruby said. “You can’t help being more pragmatic than him any more than he can help being more suspicious than you. Let him keep an eye on me. It’ll make him feel better.”

“How heartwarming,” Dean said, and stalked down the cellar stairs.

“We’re going to make our own buddy movie one day, Dean,” Ruby said, close on his heels. “You and me versus Hell. I just want to fight it on Earth. Don’t you?”

“I think you’re lying about that,” Dean said. “I know Sam wants to believe you but I don’t.”

“So don’t. I’m still going to help you get the Colt back on-line. Baby steps, Dean.” Ruby took her place on the stool obviously meant for her, parked on top of another Devil’s Trap. “There, see? All captive, ready to help. Never mind I was in the middle of Canada’s best poutine when you summoned me.”

“Now I know you’re a demon. Who would put cheese _and_ gravy on fries?”

“Canadians,” Ruby laughed, and looked over Dean’s shoulder. “Oh hello, little angel.”

“Ruby,” Castiel said. “I hope you have swift success in re-designing the Colt’s ammunition.” Castiel laid his hand on Dean's shoulder and he didn’t _want_ to be comforted, damn it, but the touch rippled over his skin and he felt a little easier.

“That’s the sweetest thing an angel ever said to me,” Ruby said with a smile.

“I know,” Castiel said. “Your continued existence is sufficient evidence to conclude that you have never met an angel before me.”

“That’s it. Both of you out,” Bobby said. “I’m never going to get this prototype made with your bickering. Find something to do.”

Well, Bobby _said_ they should find something to do. Castiel had taken Dean upstairs to the bedroom Dean used to share with Sam, until Sam moved into the smallest library, the one full of Bobby’s collection of hunter journals. Castiel ignored Dean’s complaints and grousing and took one of his hands, massaging all the small muscles and joints until Dean’s final complaint was that it wasn’t fair that Castiel could do this.

“I have a knowledge of anatomy,” Castiel said. “There are seventeen muscles and over a hundred ligaments in the human hand, and many nerves. Hands are wonderful.”

“It’s relaxing.” It was. It hurt, but only a little, and it was the good hurt of tension relief, of loosening and limbering. “Cas. You know Ruby.”

Castiel pressed strong thumbs into the ball of Dean’s hands and something just under his thumb flared and smoothed out.“I do.”

“Does she help us?” Dean flexed his fingers, and let the tension go. He should learn how to do this. Castiel wasn’t quite human, but he probably got sore and stiff like everyone else.

Clever fingers faltered. Dean watched the truth twitch Castiel’s mouth closed. Then: “You need her.”

He really wasn’t a good liar, no matter how huffy Castiel got about it. Dean felt the smile, the warm spot in his heart even as he chided, “That’s not what I asked. She fucks us over, doesn’t she.”

“Ruby is instrumental in events to come,” Castiel closed Dean’s hand and worked the ligaments and joints of his little finger. “She does help you. You’re going to have working bullets for the Colt crafted because of her.”

“And she doesn’t fuck us over today.”

Castiel smiled at Dean. “You never stop. No. Today, if a monster attacked the house she’d leap in front of you or Sam to save you. Please don’t ask me any more.”

Dean grinned back. “Then let’s do something else.”

*

“Well how were we supposed to know?” Dean said, and Sam glared at him through the messy flop of his hair. “I mean sorry the demon got a sunburn and everything—”

“You _should_ have known!” Sam shouted. “The porch is fucking covered in clematis, the old rose hedges still in bloom, Bobby’s giving away free cuttings every time a customer walks in here. You _know_ what happens when Castiel hits the jackpot, you should have thought!”

“It was an accident!” Dean shouted back. “It’s hard enough getting any quality time around here, now the house is a no-fly zone when we’ve got demons in the cellar?”

“Why can’t you take this seriously?” Sam demanded, and pots clattered onto the stove.

“It was just an accident, Sam. Look,” Dean tried a calmer tone, and picked up a potato. He ignored the peeler and used a knife, the blade worn down from decades of sharpening. “I get that we need Ruby’s help to get the Colt running again. I understand that she really is helping us, no matter what she wants. I don’t have to like it, and I think you trust her too much.”

“I don’t trust her,” Sam said. “I’m using her.”

“She’ll betray us,” Dean said. “Maybe not today. But she will, Sam. Just—be suspicious of everything she says.”

They had their first bullet prototypes about a week after the meteoric iron shipment came, and getting mail from Russia was a nail biting six week wait. But thirteen bullets rested in the grooves of Samuel Colt’s handmade case. They were engraved and numbered and waiting for a case.

Dean didn’t think they’d have to wait long before they got news of a demon wreaking havoc. They fielded calls and forum messages from people reporting unusual deaths and acts of violence that weren’t solidly connected yet, just waiting for someone to take all those little incidents and put them together.

Dean wished he still owed Ash a six-pack of beer.

Dean also wished that Sam would stay the hell away from Ruby, but after they’d gotten the bullets finished, Sam would “go for a walk” off the salvage yard and come back with corn pollen dusting his clothes. He’d get phone calls on his cell phone that had him headed into the maze of salvage cars at all hours of the day and night.

Dean did not trust Ruby. Not even after she’d helped them with the bullets. Not even after she stepped willingly into devil’s trap after devil’s trap, making herself vulnerable. And he was getting sick and tired of the phrase “Ruby says.”

“Ruby says she can probably find us a demon to test the Colt on, but most of the ones who got out of the gate were heavy hitters,” Sam said.

“Good for Ruby,” Dean said, and waited for the new forum messages to load. “We’re still researching anything she tells us.”

“Okay. Speaking of,” Sam said. “There’s something I need to check out. Can I punk out on making dinner?”

“You have to wash the dishes,” Dean said.

“Deal.”

“And I’m frying the chicken.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “But make a salad and I’ll pass on the potatoes.”

“More for me,” Dean said, and started picking potatoes.

Sam didn’t leave the kitchen. He pulled his laptop out of the old plate rack, plugged it into the wall, and started typing away for something. Dean didn’t mind. He diced the potatoes up fine and poured them into salted water to cook, and then went to town on choosing spices to blend into flour.

Sam picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Hello,” Sam said. “This is Agent Aaron Rossi of the FBI. I’m calling to get some information from your old cases, do you have a few minutes for me? Our internet is out. Again.”

Dean eyed Sam’s back and reached for the oregano.

“I have names, mostly. Robert Campbell, let’s start there.”

What the hell was Sam up to?

“Right, July 19, 2001. What was cause of death?” Sam braced the handset between his ear and his shoulder and typed. “He had a heart condition? But he was a cardiac surgeon. Alright, how about Marjorie Wallace? Another doctor, yes. House fire? No survivors, plural? Who else was - Ed Campbell. Yes, another Campbell. They connected? Brothers. Alright, I know I have another fire here, it came up in one of my interviews. Hardecker?”

Dean stopped working. He leaned against the counter and waited.

“Yes. House fire. November 24th, 2006. Joseph and Susan Hardecker—excuse me? Her maiden name was Campbell? That’s—yeah, goose walked over my grave too.” He glanced at Dean, finally, and the look on his face kept Dean silent. He thought his own face might mirror it.

“Confidential informant,” Sam said. “I don’t think the connection would have ever come to light without it. I need to talk with my supervisor, but I’ll definitely be talking to you again. Actually can I ask for you again? George Hardison? Great, George. I think you helped me crack this wide open. Whatever this is. Yes. Thank you. ‘Bye.”

Sam hung up and got to his feet. “Dean. They’re all dead.”

“What the hell was that?”

“Something Ruby said, before you and Cas scorched her - where _is_ Cas?”

“Giving us space,” Dean said. “He’s in the garage with Bobby. What did Ruby say?”

“She asked me what Robert Campbell, Marjorie Wallace, and the Hardecker house fire had in common.”

“The Campbells,” Dean said. “Mom’s people.”

“All dead,” Sam said.

“Why? Why kill Mom’s family?”

“Because four people can keep a secret, if all of them are dead,” Sam said.

“But what did they know?”

“I think…something about us.”

Dean didn’t want fried chicken any more.

They ate, though. Especially Castiel, who ate three pieces of chicken, two biscuits, ignored the mashed potatoes, and shared the bowl of salad with Sam.

“I need to go to the library,” Sam said. “I should be gone for a couple of hours.”

“Oh,” Dean said. “Cas and me, we were going to go out tonight.”

“Well. Bobby, you have something I can borrow?”

“There’s a GTO you can take if you adjust the timing belt,” Bobby said. “The paint should be dry.”

Sam used the library’s closing hour as an excuse to get out of washing the supper dishes, the little jerk. Castiel washed while Dean dried and put pots away. There weren’t many to wash. It was just the principle of the thing. He could see Sam, loping across the yard in the only coverall long enough to fit him. He heard the car’s engine start, then stop, then start again in a different pitch.

“That’s got it,” Bobby said.

The Pontiac was painted a surprising dark brown fleck.

“Good looking paint for discontinued surplus.”

“It’s new. That car’s going to Encino,” Bobby said.

“So that’s somebody’s baby.”

“Yeah, don’t know the story, just contacted me on the website. Took a month to negotiate all the details, and then boom, all the money at once.”

“Nice.” The engine rumbled even when it was idle. Dean wove around Castiel and put plates up in the cupboard. He stroked across Cas’ back, just where the energy rayed out of him and his palm tingled with tiny prickles.

But Castiel didn’t smile at him or bump hips. The angel cocked his head and frowned, listening. Dean stopped, and heard the squeal and thunk of the Impala’s trunk closing.

Dean looked at Castiel, who frowned through the window.

“What could Sam need out of the trunk to take to the library?” Dean asked.

“Good question,” Castiel said.

Dean threw down his blue and white striped tea towel and raced outside. Sam was already gone, the dust still falling back to earth. Dean opened the trunk of the Impala, and his gut flipped over at the sight of the open, empty box on top of the arsenal.

He’d taken the Colt.

Sam wasn’t answering the phone. “Can you find him?” Dean asked, and Castiel spun the wheel to a soft squeal of tires. He handled the car as if it didn’t weigh two tons. As if hydraulic pressure and not strength of arms moved the hulking, gas guzzling beast along the back roads of south Dakota.

“He isn’t warded against me,” Castiel said. “But my sense of him is as a direct line. I will still have to navigate the roads and hope I don’t make a mistake.”

Two left turns later, they were forced onto divided highway headed in the opposite direction. Castiel took the closest exit and tried to find his way back to the simple, two lane roads that he could use to find Sam, driving hell-bent for - where?

Dean muttered to himself and scanned over the map. “He’s looking for a crossroads,” Dean said.

“There are plenty,” Castiel said. “He’s north by northwest of us.”

“Turn right two intersections from now, and then left at the next. This road dead-ends.”

Castiel nodded and made the turns, skirting around quarter-sections filled with crops.

“What the hell were you thinking, Sam,” Dean muttered.

“He wants to save you,” Castiel said.

“I told him not to.”

“And you thought he’d listen?” Castiel took a left. “He’s nearly due west now. I think he’s searching for two dirt roads.”

“West of here, how far?”

“I’m not sure. Ten miles?”

“Okay,” Dean said, and scanned the map. “Three possibles.”

Twenty-seven miles, actually. Castiel didn’t have a good of a sense of distance, but they got there by Castiel’s senses and Dean’s map reading and found the crossroads where Sam had gone to meet the devil.

Sam didn’t look over his shoulder as the Impala crawled over gravel and crunched to a stop. He held the Colt on the demon in a black dress, who grinned just as insolently as Dean remembered. She turned her back on Sam and put her hands on her hips.

“And there he is now,” the demon said. “Dean. So nice you could join us--Oh.”

The demon took a step back at the sight of Castiel, who walked around the car to stand beside Dean.

“Yes,” Castiel responded. “Oh.”

“So if you have your doubts about the Colt, you can fear the angel instead,” Sam said. Just as cool as if they planned it. He kept that long barrel trained on her head and never quit looking down the sight.

“Big Brother didn’t tell you?” The demon tried for cool unconcern, but she glanced at Castiel again and blew the game. “He tries to back out of this deal, you die.”

“It’s true, Sam,” Dean called.

“Any deal can be broken,” Sam said. “It just takes the right persuasion.”

Red eyes flickered toward Castiel, traveled down his borrowed Nine Inch Nails t-shirt and dusty blue jeans.

“I’m on vacation,” Castiel said. “But as for the real question, yes. I can and will burn out your very existence if you don’t do your best to help Sam and Dean.”

The demon put her hands up, the cool act in tatters. “I can’t do anything about it.”

“Wrong answer,” Sam said.

“I don’t hold the contract!” the demon said, looking to Dean—to Dean? For understanding. “I’ve got a boss like everybody else, and he holds the contract.”

“So we need to negotiate with him,” Sam said.

The demon laughed over her fear. Dean could almost smell it on her. “He wants Dean’s soul, bad. He’s not going to let it go.”

“Who?” Castiel asked.

The demon’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not going to tell you that, so you might as well see if your popgun even works. Where’d you get more bullets, anyway?”

“You interested, or are you just talking?” Sam asked.

“It was Ruby, wasn’t it,” the demon said.

“How do you know Ruby?” Dean asked. “She one of your crossroads skanks?”

“Demons talk. She went AWOL. Everyone’s looking for her. Rumour said that she’d go running to you, Sam.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and kept the Colt aimed at the demon’s face.

Dean wanted to stop him, take the Colt away, but no devil’s trap held her there. “Sam? Why Sam?”

“Plenty were prepared to follow him,” she told Dean. “Ruby put all her eggs in Sam’s basket. And then he killed Azazel.”

“Dean,” Sam corrected. “Dean killed Azazel.”

“Tell us who holds my contract,” Dean said. “Just tell us.”

“I can’t name him.” the demon’s voice quavered. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way.”

“You’re dead either way, aren’t you?” Dean said.

“Just shoot me,” the demon’s voice cracked. “They’ll give me to Alistair. Please.”

“Maybe we should let her go,” Sam said.

“Please,” the demon said. “Azazel’s death rocked hell. Everybody’s on clampdown. They’ll find out I talked to you, and then I’ll tell them everything.” She looked at Castiel and looked back at Dean. “I won’t be able to stop.”

“Tell us who holds Dean’s contract,” Sam said.

“I can’t,” the demon said. “I would, but I can’t.”

“Spell?”

The demon nodded.

“Give me the Colt, Sam.”

Sam broke his sight to stare at Dean. “Are you serious?”

The demon lunged, screaming.

Sam turned back and fired.

It was the same as when Dean had shot the yellow-eyed demon Azazel. Orange flames seemed to flare just under her skin, flickering behind her vessel’s bones, glowing from her open mouth, her scream silent now.

The demon fell to the oiled gravel road before the last flash of light faded from her body.

“It works,” Sam said.

Dean felt a stone roll on his chest.

Sam glared at him. “Didn’t you think I could do it?”

“Didn’t think you should have to, Sam,” Dean said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sam said. “Just get the tarp.”

They dug the demon’s grave in silence. Sam turned away any time Dean tried to catch his eye, and walked off through the maze of paths between wrecked cars in the yard once they got back to Bobby’s.

Dean was too tired to go after him. Too tired to lecture Sam about what a risk he’d taken, summoning the demon and trying to renege on the deal Dean had made to bring him back. He let Castiel lead him upstairs to rinse the work of grave digging off his body.

They lay in Dean’s narrow bed, wound together skin to skin, and Castiel kissed the edge of Dean’s ear.

“I didn’t want Sam to kill her,” Dean said.

“I know,” Castiel murmured back.

“Who’s going to look after him when I’m gone?” Dean asked. “Who’s going to be there for him? He’s grown up, I know that. But it’s my job, Cas. Look after him. Always has been, and this is _why._ This is what Dad—what John—this is why I learned to shoot. This is what he was preparing me for, Cas. Fucking monsters, and the demon who killed our mom, and what do they want Sam for, Cas?”

Hot tears slid down the corners of his eyes, pooled in the shell of his ear. He rolled to grab Castiel and held tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when the storm ended. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I know,” Castiel said, and Dean sniffed and tried to get his breathing back. Castiel petted Dean’s back, just the way Dean used for Sam’s nightmares, to soothe him back to sleep, to show him that he wasn’t alone.

Castiel kept petting him long after salt water had dried on their skin, and Dean wasn’t alone.

But he knew he would be.

"I wish I wasn't damned," Dean said to the silent dark. "Dying, okay, I accept that. But if I wasn't damned, we could..."

Dean swallowed it down, shut his eyes tight, and said it through the spines in his throat. "I'm gonna die and I'm never gonna see you again, Cas. I'm going to Hell."


	16. You Have to Go, But I Have to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the deadline is closing in, and if that wasn't bad enough...

Sam sat in the kitchen with a road atlas and a pen, marking out likely locations for a new crossroads. Dean stopped in the doorway and tried not to feel sick.

“Sam,” Dean said. “Stop.”

Castiel wove past him, headed straight to the coffee maker. Sam didn’t even look up.

“No.”

Dean’s hands rested on his hips, and he forced them down to hang free. Don’t get mad. Be reasonable. “We got lucky last night, Sam.”

“We got nothing,” Sam growled. “We need a name.” He went on marking roads that weren’t paved over, that were tucked away in the back of the land’s cornfields and cattle pastures.

Castiel hovered near the stove and bit his lip.

Nothing had been started for breakfast. Sam had his shaker cup full of breakfast smoothie, and he sipped from a straw while he refused to listen to a damn word Dean said.

But Dean tried again. “Sam, if we fuck with this contract, you die. And probably I still die, too. We can’t shoot every crossroads demon we can find. If that one couldn’t tell us who held my contract, then why waste a fifty dollar bullet on another one?”

“For science.”

Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest.“Sam—”

Sam slapped the pen down and put his laptop on top of the map. “Okay, then. I found us one,” Sam said. “A woman died last night. It hit the hunter forums.”

Sam turned the laptop around so Dean could see, but he didn’t bend down to read what it said. “Why?”

Sam’s arms crossed over his chest in a mirror of Dean’s own. “All her teeth fell out at once and she bled to death.”

“Oh look, it’s my favorite nightmare.”

Castiel brought the eggs out of the refrigerator, found bacon, and retrieved a bag of frozen hash browns. “You suspect witches.”

“Yes. And where there’s witches, there could be demons,” Sam said. “And if we take a minute to ask a witchmaster a few questions, maybe we get more intel.”

“Sam—”

“I’m not going to stop trying, Dean,” Sam said. “You can give up. That’s all right. But Ruby said you can get out of this mess, and I mean to try.”

“You shouldn’t trust Ruby.”

“I don’t. I’m looking for myself,” Sam said.

The garage horn sounded, and Dean looked out the window. “Shit. Customer,” Dean said.

He crossed the kitchen and ducked into the mudroom, hopping into a green coverall with his name patch. He fit a welding cap on his head and went out.

The car was a brand new Mercedes CLK. The driver was gorgeous, with honey blonde hair and light blue eyes. She stepped out and clicked across the concrete floor of the garage.

“I was looking for Bobby. Is he here?”

Beautiful accent. British, and her voice clear and light. She was looking for Bobby? She must be a hunter. Dean wished there was a secret handshake so he could find out.

“He went out of town yesterday,” Dean said. “It didn’t sound like there was anything wrong with your engine.”

“You have a good ear…Dean,” she said, and tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I was actually here on a non-automotive matter. D’you know when he’ll be back?”

“Sorry. I’m guessing he’ll be a few days.”

“No matter,” she said. “I’ll try calling next time. It’ll keep until he’s home.”

“Who should I tell him came by?” Dean asked, as she opened the door to her Mercedes.

“Bela,” she said. “He’ll remember.”

Dean smiled and waved her goodbye as she backed out of the garage and drove off the yard.

“Who was that?” Sam asked, when Dean came inside.

“Her name’s Bela. She was looking for Bobby. I think she’s a hunter. You should have come out earlier, Sammy, she was smokin’.”

“Maybe next time,” Sam said. “Listen. I know you don’t want to rock the boat but we have to keep trying. Somebody in Hell holds your contract and we have a gun that can kill anything. We drill enough demons, we’ll get a name.”

“Sam…”

“We track down a witchmaster, maybe we’ll have better luck. The trail might be cold by the time Bobby gets back but I’ll keep looking. Maybe we’ll find something even closer.”

Bobby came back the next day with a full load of supplies in the back of his truck, and it took all of them to get everything stored away in the pantry and workshop.

“Anyone come by while I was away?” Bobby asked, only half attending the answer.

“Yeah, a friend of yours came to see you, I think she was a hunter.”

“She?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Her name’s Bela.”

Bobby’s head snapped up and he stared at Dean, eyes wide.

“British accent, about Sam’s age? Brand new car?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Why?”

“Did you run inventory, have you noticed anything missing?” Bobby charged into the smallest library, scanning the shelves.

“Not that I noticed, but we’ve been sitting around,” Dean said. “Why?”

“Bela Talbot’s a thief, Dean. She shakes your hand, you check to make sure you’ve got all your valuables. If she was here, it was to steal something, and she left because she got it.”

“But she didn’t get three feet away from her car,” Dean said. “How could she have taken anything from there?”

“Dean, think. What’s on the wall next to the green telephone by the door?”

“Shit,” Dean said, and they nearly collided trying to get through the door.

All of the keys were there. Everything was in place. Only one of the bays even had a car in it - the Impala rested in the first bay by the door, waiting for a radiator flush.

“Dean,” Bobby said. “What’s in the trunk?”

Dean looked at Bobby in horror, then rushed over to the car.

The Colt was gone - box, bullets, all of it.

“How’d she even know we have it?” Dean asked for the umpteenth time.

“Hunters talk, Dean. You should know that better than anybody,” Bobby said. “You know who else talks? The dead. Bela Talbot’s more than a thief. She’s a spiritist.”

“What, a necromancer?” Sam asked.

“Spiritists speak to the dead,” Castiel said. He rubbed a soothing hand across the back of Dean’s shoulders. “Necromancers are spiritists, but spiritists aren’t necessarily necromancers.”

“What’s the difference?” Dean asked. He wanted to stand up, to do something. He sat still and let Castiel touch him.

“Necromancers command the dead. Turn ghosts and vengeful spirits into their own servants. It’s rare here,” Bobby said. “Spiritists are usually psychics with a limited ability. She would have made a great ghostbuster, but Bela acquires artifacts and sells them to the highest bidder.”

“Great,” Dean said. “So she stole the Colt to sell it?”

“You better find her fast, or that gun will be halfway around the world,” Bobby said. He walked over to Sam’s computer, and turned it to face him.

“What are you doing?”

“Chasing a lead,” Bobby said. “You boys get ready, you’ve got a drive ahead of you.”

“Where are we going?”

“Whitefish, Montana,” Bobby said. “Get a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and mind your manners. Rufus might shoot you or he might help you, but hand him that whiskey and don’t scare the fish.”

Rufus Turner was on vacation. Dean knew this, because Rufus had said so. Loudly, down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Do I look like I’m here to help you?” he asked, and pumped the shotgun.

Dean was stammering _No, Sir_ when Castiel stepped forward with the bottle of Johnnie Walker and said, “We wouldn’t disturb your prized leisure time without urgent reason. Also, Bobby has regretted not taking the shot that would have saved Sarah’s life every day for fifteen years, and told Sam and Dean to claim that Ellen sent them, which you would know to be a lie.”

“Because Ellen doesn’t know how to find the cabin,” Rufus said. “I knew these two had to be from Bobby on account of being able to find the place.”

Castiel nodded serenely, and froze when Rufus leveled the shotgun at him.

“But that doesn’t tell me how you know about Sarah.”

“She rests in Heaven, Rufus, with every happiness in easy reach,” Castiel said. “I am Castiel.”

His eyes glowed blue, and his wings cast a shadow across the leaf-littered ground.

Rufus pulled up his shotgun and expelled the cartridges, eyes wide.

“Fear not,” Castiel said. “But I ask you to help us. We’re looking for someone, and we hope that you know where to find her.”

“Do angels drink scotch?” Rufus asked.

Castiel smiled. “On occasion.”

They gathered around a laminate and particleboard table, perched on floral printed vinyl kitchen chairs, and shared a drink of the smoothest whiskey Johnnie Walker had to offer.

“It’s not even worth drinking if it’s not this stuff,” Rufus said. “Now who are you looking for?”

“Her name’s Bela Talbot,” Dean said.

“Yes, I know Bela,” Rufus said. “Talked to her before I came out on my fishing trip. She wanted to buy a few things, but I told her that she’d have to wait until I came back before she’d see them.”

“Where can we find her?” Dean asked.

“Right now?” Rufus asked. “She was already in Pennsylvania when she called. She said she’d cool her heels there.”

“Pennsylvania,” Dean groaned. “Well, I guess that’s where we go. Thank you, Rufus.”

“You’re not done,” Rufus said. “You got your bottle of whiskey’s worth of information, now you need to know the rest.”

Rufus crossed the cabin and twisted a fan to blow onto the kitchen table. The breeze cooled the sweat on Dean's forehead, and Rufus sat back down.

“I’ve got all my files on the server in Vermont,” he said. "Swing by Vermont in eight days," Rufus said. "There's always something to do. We're up to our eyes in witches."

"Yeah?" Sam leaned forward, but Dean set his tumbler down so it clicked. Sam glared at him when Rufus turned his attention to Dean.

"I was wondering, uh, what you have for us in Vermont."

Rufus raised an eyebrow. "You’re hunting Bela. She stole something you needed to get out of your demon deal.”

Dean coughed. “How’d you know about that?”

“I know things,” Rufus said. “I keep an eye out. I know you were deep in it in Wyoming last spring."

Dean nodded, felt Sam beside him doing the same. Not a lot of hunters who _didn't_ know about Hell literally breaking loose.

Gordon eyed him, and then Sam. "I know that the list of the dead from that day had Sam’s name on it…and then two days later, it didn’t."

Dean looked at Sam, who pressed his lips together so tight they turned white.

“You’re on the forum?” Dean asked.

Rufus scoffed. “Of course I am. Just not when I’m on vacation, and mostly to get messages. Vandross84.”

“If you want to talk to me, I’m Thurschild,” Castiel said.

Rufus nodded and set his glass down. “I’ll write to you.”

Dean gave Castiel a look that asked what that was all about, and Castiel shook his head.

“We should go,” Castiel said. “Thank you for helping us.”

“As if I would deny help to an angel,” Rufus said. “You’re going to be all right to drive?”

“I’m driving,” Castiel said.

*

It was barely dinnertime when they left Whitefish. Castiel drove to Jay-Z, and Dean said, "Hey why don't we stop for dinner in Missoula?"

"You don't want to drive straight through?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean admitted. "I can't hack it in the back seat, I'll get car sick."

"Because you're drunk," Sam said, and laughed.

"Not really," Dean said. "Just buzzed."

"That's what drunk people say."

"Shut up--Cas look out!"

There was a woman standing directly in their path. She wore jeans and a black leather jacket, her face shaded by the curved brim of a tan stetson. Dean saw all of this as the Impala twisted to the left under the force of Castiel standing on the brakes. The tires squealed as they left a half inch of rubber on the green tinted highway. The Impala's tail shimmied, and Dean dug his fingers into the back of the bench seat. He hadn’t put on his seatbelt . He'd break Sam's neck on his way out of the windshield.

Dean hugged the headrest as the car lurched to a stop. He'd felt a thump on the rear flank. They'd hit the girl. Oh fuck. They'd hit her.

"Assholes."

The voice sounded through the open window. Dean lifted his head.

Ruby had already gotten on her feet, her blue jeans streaked with blood and road dust. The knees were torn. Her hat lay crushed on the ground. She glared up at Dean and Sam, staring out the passenger side in shock.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Dean demanded.

"Ruby!" Sam exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Ruby raised a bloody, scraped palm. Blood dripped down her wrist and onto the cuff of her jacket. "Motherfucker, I just stole this jacket today."

"It was quite fetching," Castiel said. "You miscalculated the braking distance needed for a three and a half thousand pound vehicle without power brakes or steering traveling at seventy two miles per hour."

"Is that your way of saying you're sorry?"

"I feel no need to apologize to demons," Castiel said. "You shouldn't have been standing there. I regret the destruction of your clothes, and you should probably readjust your nose."

"Angels are dicks," Ruby muttered, and felt the bridge. "Fuck!"

Sam had gotten out of the car, and stood by Ruby's side. "Let me."

"You're the only nice one, Sam," Ruby said, and stamped her foot and screamed when Sam jerked her nose back in place. "That's probably why I keep helping you. I've got a fucking burn on my ass from the wards on your back panels."

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"I'm with Cas," Dean muttered. "The fuck were you thinking."

"I needed to stop you and I didn't want to alarm your friend," Ruby said, pointing back the way they'd come with her scraped chin. "Since he'd shoot me full of salt and send me back to Hell, and you need me."

"Like hell we do," Dean said.

"Stop us from what?" Sam asked.

"Getting your dumb asses killed," Ruby said. "Don't go after Bela Talbot."

"She stole the Colt," Castiel said.

"She _what?_ " Ruby shrieked. "What the fuck, you guys?"

"So we kind of have to go after her," Sam said.

"It's a trap, you idiots!" Ruby tried to rub gravel out of her palms. "You lost the Colt, I can't believe it. Sam, do you have water and a cloth? I should clean up."

Sam was trying to poke Ruby's hat back into shape. "Yeah, hang on."

"I'll get it," Dean said.

"Oh no you won't," Ruby said. "I can't _believe_ you'd try the holy water trick on me when I'm literally busting my ass to help you. You are the _definition_ of ungrateful."

"Whatever," Dean said. "What do you know about Bela Talbot?"

"I know that she's working for the demon who holds your contract."

"Oh that's just awesome," Dean said. "Sam, what the fuck."

Sam had poured water on a clean cotton cloth and was carefully washing gravel out of Ruby's hands. "She's trying to help you, Dean, and all you ever give her is shit and abuse, and she's still trying to help you."

"I don't trust her," Dean said.

"I'm right here, you know," Ruby said.

"Butt out."

Ruby huffed and hissed as she bent her elbow. Sam dabbed at her hands with his wet cloth.

"Tell him why, Ruby," Sam said, and Dean did not like how his little brother looked into her eyes. At all.

"I will," Ruby said. "But not now. Give me the bottle and the cloth. You three. Meet me at the Whitewater Motel in Missoula." She tossed a room key at Castiel, who caught it. "You got enough juice to check it out in advance, featherface? No tricks, scout's honor."

"I will check it out, as you say," Castiel said.

"And bring me some french fries," Ruby said. "I'm going to get some new jeans."

She threw the crumpled stetson into some bushes and stalked off down the road, muttering angrily to herself.

Sam whirled to face Dean, glaring. "Why can't you cut her some slack, Dean?"

An engine started, and Ruby re-appeared briefly, seated in the saddle of a chopped Triumph motorcycle. Her hair was a banner as she drove by.

Dean watched until she was well out of sight. "Run that conversation back in your head, Sam. What did she tell us?"

"That the demon who holds your contract is using Bela to lead you into a trap."

"That's right. What _didn't_ she tell us?"

Sam's face slid into horror. "The name of the demon who holds your contract."

"She's known all along, Sammy," Dean said. "She could have told us way before this, but instead, she's let you run around trying to figure it out while giving you helpful warnings. So why didn't she tell us?"

Sam gritted his teeth and turned away, walking around the front of the Impala. "Keys."

Castiel handed them over.

Sam tried, but they never caught up to Ruby.

When they got into town Castiel vanished from the back seat in search of a safe and underpopulated motel, and Sam immediately started on Dean for being paranoid.

"We are not going to meet Ruby at a place she set up, Sam, and that's final," Dean said. "We'll find our own space and summon her in."

Sam flexed his fingers and ran them through his hair, tugging a little. "Dean--All right," he said. "Fine. I'm not going to fight you on this."

"Finally," Dean said, and only startled a little when Castiel re-appeared in the back seat.

"No traps," Castiel said. "The room that Ruby chose is safe, and she's currently standing in a devil's trap waiting for us."

Dean muttered, "We should just leave her there."

"Dean."

"I'm just saying," Dean said. "She's going to have to explain why she's holding out on us, if she's so trustworthy."

The Whitewater Motel had an amateur photographer on staff. Large prints of forest and stream scenes, delicate baby deer, and alpine meadows full of flowers cluttered the walls of a forest green and beige colored double queen room. Ruby stood on a copy of their welcome mat - a shower curtain with a devil's trap sprayed onto it, and Dean could still smell the fumes from its making.

"I should have asked for a chair," Ruby said.

"Perhaps," Castiel agreed.

"Tell us who holds Dean's contract, Ruby," Sam said. "We know you know."

"You're not ready. Not even with the Colt, you're not ready for her," Ruby said.

"Her?" Dean asked. "Hey, what the hell, Sam?"

Ruby backed up to the edge of the trap as Sam placed one of the dinette chairs inside it.

"Come on, really?" Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam shrugged.

"Sam's the nice one." Ruby sat down with a grateful sigh. "And yes. Her. The boss of the crossroads demons is after your ass, Dean, and she wants it bad."

The circle was at the far side of the room, and Sam sat down on the foot of the bed nearest it. "The crossroads demon we talked to said her boss was a man," Sam said.

"She probably didn't lie," Ruby shrugged and crossed her legs, one booted foot bouncing. "The sales and marketing division is like Amway."

"The name," Dean said.

"I'm not telling you," Ruby said patiently, "because I need you and your brother to _live_. If I tell you, one or the other of you will take off to track her down, and die, and then the other one will die, and Angel Eyes here isn't up to full power."

"Don't call him that," Dean said.

"Dean," Sam said. "She's trying to get under your skin."

"Whatever. Cas?"

"I could destroy her right now," Castiel said. "But a commander of Hell would be...challenging."

"You have to get the Colt back," Ruby said. "If she hasn't handed it over already."

"Do you think that's likely?" Sam asked.

"No," Castiel said. "I wouldn't let an underling hold on to a valuable weapon like that if it were me."

"Feathers here is right," Ruby said. "I have enough trouble keeping hold of my knife."

"What's so special about it?"

Castiel twirled his fingers and his own angel blade spun through the air. "It's made from star-iron. It can kill demons, Dean."

Dean snapped his fingers and put his hand out. "Give it to us."

Ruby scoffed. "What, so you can lose that too? No."

"What other choice do you have, Ruby?" Dean demanded. "Are you going to run in there and fight with us, your own little redemption story?"

"When you're ready," Ruby said.

"What?" Sam asked.

"When you're ready to take her down, I'll be there with you. I'd love to see her bleed. When you're _ready."_

"All right, Obi-Wan," Dean rolled his eyes. "And when will we be ready?"

"Are you so eager to die, Dean? Are you raring to go down to the pit, leave your boyfriend here behind? Because you sure seem like it. Worry about Bela. Like I said, it's a trap, but you're going to have to spring it. Where is she?"

"She’s headed to Vermont," Sam said.

Dean stared at his brother, who shook his head slowly.

"All right," Ruby said. "She there for a reason?"

"She wants to buy something from Rufus, and she's going to collect it when he's back from his trip."

"So break into Rufus' place and steal it. Bait a trap of your own," Ruby said. "What do you think about that?"

*

"I think she actually wants you to die," Bobby said when they got him on the phone and outlined their visit with Rufus and the later meeting with Ruby. "Sack up and drive out to Vermont, but don't go near Rufus' house till I call you. I'll convince him to go home right away, and I will owe him one for the next ten years."

"What's up with Rufus' house?" Dean asked.

"It's curse-trapped," Bobby said. "Rufus doesn't have a lot of mercy on thieves. Head to town, but don't go near that house until you get the OK. I'll get him back as soon as I can."

"You headed out this way?" Sam asked.

"You'll be long gone," Bobby said. "Castiel doesn't need to sleep. You can keep that car rolling for thirty six hours straight if you two sleep in shifts."

"That's how long it will take us to get there," Dean said.

"Yeah if you drive like my grandma," Bobby said. "We're going to fly in, I'll meet you there."

*

"I don't know what good it'll do to pull into Canaan exhausted," Sam said. "We'll be dragging our asses around trying to avoid Bela's trap for us."

"If there is a trap," Dean muttered. He looked out the window at sugar maples, the Impala casting long afternoon shadows along the narrow-shouldered road. "Cas, look at this. Pretty, right?"

"It's very nice," Castiel agreed. "Thank you for pointing it out."

"It's the light," Sam said. “reflecting off the clouds, makes everything vivid.”

"Eyes on the road, leadfoot," Dean muttered, and undid his seatbelt. Castiel blinked into the backseat, and Dean rested his head in Castiel's lap, sighing as he felt Cas's fingers along his scalp.

"You have a headache," Castiel said. "I can feel the constriction of blood vessels."

"It's not bad," Dean said. "I just need sleep."

"Should I assist?"

"Not yet."

"God, you two are sweet," Sam said.

"Shut up, Sammy."

Sam chuckled and the Impala sped on. "I'm just saying. It's cute."

"I will punch you," Dean said.

"You can try."

Dean scowled, but stopped when Castiel dragged his fingers across Dean's forehead.

*

"I told you not to whammy me," Dean sat up and looked out the windows blearily.

"You and Sam both need sleep," Castiel said, from the driver's seat. Sam slept with his head back against the headrest, his whole body slack and rocking gently with the car's movements. "We'll have to hit the ground running when we get to Canaan."

"You know something," Dean said.

"Bela always steals the Colt, Dean." Castiel turned the Impala along soft curves, along a narrow highway surrounded by wind-shivered trees. "And I don't know what to do."

"Something happens," Dean said. "Look, I know that my ticket's about to get punched, Cas."

"What if it doesn't have to?" Castiel asked.

"What are you saying?" Dean asked.

"This bend in time," Castiel said. "Why isn't it the true path? Why can't it be? Sam refuses to give up."

"You want to go after the demon who holds my contract."

Castiel glanced at Dean through the rear view mirror. "I'm saying we could. But if we do, I don't know what will happen."

"What happens to the other me, Cas?"

"Dean," Castiel said. "Do you really think I can tell you?"

"Worth a try," Dean said. "So, you're thinking the way to win is to not play?"

"I don't know," Castiel said. "Angels can move through the quantum superposition of possibilities, but it takes more power than I have."

"You mean--"

"I can't look," Castiel said. "I won't know."

"So what do we do?" Dean asked. "We've got to get the Colt back, right? Does Bela still have it?"

"It's unlikely," Castiel said. "But it's not the only thing that can kill demons."

Dean watched an oncoming car's high beams blink down to a more polite brightness as it drew near. "You can kill a demon."

"My angel blade," Castiel agreed. "Or my own power. It would take everything I have--"

"No," Dean said. "Castiel, no."

"It's mine to give," Castiel said. "We destroy the demon who holds your contract, and you won't have to die."

"And you'll be--what will you be, Castiel? With your grace burned out? With none of your powers? Can you live like that?"

"I'll be with you," Castiel said.

"That's not enough," Dean protested.

"It is for me."

Sam stirred and raised his head. "What?"

"Sorry, Sam," Dean said. "Go back to sleep."

"What're you fighting about?" Sam asked.

"Cas wants to burn himself out taking down the demon who holds my contract," Dean said.

"Cas, you don't have to do that," Sam said. "But I'm on board to kill a demon."

"Sam, don't encourage him."

"We took down Azazel," Sam said.

"With the Colt," Dean said. "Which we don't have. Which might already be melted down to make boot nails."

"Ruby's knife--"

"Means trusting Ruby."

"She wants that demon gone too, Dean."

"Yeah, and why is that, Sam, you ever wonder?" Dean asked.

"She helps us," Sam said

"Ruby's helping Ruby, Sam. She's a demon."

"There's still my angel blade," Castiel said.

"We'd have to get lucky," Dean said. "I don't like plans that hinge on the phrase, 'we'd have to get lucky.' Weird, I know."

"First things first," Castiel said. "We can't go on with any kind of plan with Bela Talbot at your backs."

"She knows who holds my contract, I bet," Dean said. "Do we try to capture her? Hang on," he said, and groped for his ringing phone.

"Bobby," Dean said. "Hang on, I'll put you on speaker."

"Had a hell of a time getting here," Bobby's voice rumbled. "We had to change flights in Denver, again in Chicago, and then I had to drive up here with this miserable coot--"

"You dragged me back to Vermont before Samhain, Bobby," Rufus said. "Place is filthy with tourists looking at goddamn leaves. Vermont in the fall is a plague."

"Are you home now?" Dean asked, cutting through their bickering.

"Yes. And come straight here, boys."

"Bela's out there waiting for us."

"Bela's right here in this house," Bobby said.

"What?"

"She got farther in my house than anybody ever got," Rufus said. "But we have a problem."

"What's that?"

"Somebody's got to go in there and wake her up."

*

Bela looked peaceful, Dean thought. She lay on a narrow bed in a yellow wallpapered room stacked with boxes along one wall, on top of a coverlet marked with tropical green leaves. Her right hand clasped a long wooden dowel with a disk on one end, her fingers smeared with dried blood.

She looked like she was asleep.

"What the hell," Sam said.

"Is it drugs?" Dean asked, and Sam shook his head.

"Dean, that thing in her hand. It's a spindle."

"So, cursed object, right?"

"It's sleeping beauty," Sam said. "That story is real?"

"Picked up the spindle on a trip to Poland," Rufus said. "She stepped on a pressure plate in the hallway and it launched at her. It drew blood. She's trapped."

"Well, then what?"

"She stays asleep," Rufus said.

"What, forever?"

"Until she dies of dehydration," Rufus said. "She's probably been sleeping a couple days."

"Or until someone touches the spindle and brings her back," Bobby said.

"She tried to steal from me," Rufus said, "And going in isn't a guarantee of coming back. I think we leave her."

"We don't have to," Castiel said. "And Bela knows the name of the demon who holds Dean's contract."

"You're just guessing," Dean said.

"If we believe Ruby, she knows."

"And if we don't believe Ruby?"

"Then she can tell you what she did with the Colt," Sam said. "How do we go after her?"

"I can send you," Castiel said. "I can enter her dream, and leave again. I can take you back with me."

"Just me," Dean said. "You guys wait in case I need help."

The couch Dean lay on smelled like old, crumbly foam rubber, but at least he didn't have to dangle his feet over one edge.

Sam had fought to go along, but Dean held his ground about going in alone. "If we all go, who rescues us?" Dean had asked, and lucky for him Rufus and Bobby backed him up.

So he lay on the couch and Sam sulked nearby, but Sam would get over it.

"Ready," Dean said, and Castiel touched his forehead.

He woke up on the couch alone.

"Cas," he called. "It didn't work. I don't know what went wrong--hey, anybody home?"

The house seemed empty. Dean got up and checked out the kitchen, but it was tidy and deserted.

"Oh come on," Dean said, and made for the front door. All eight locks were disengaged, and Dean opened it, hoping he'd see everyone out on the front porch drinking Irish coffee or something.

But the porch was empty, and the street was gone. Rufus Turner's house sat on a rolling expanse of perfect green lawn, with--

Holy shit.

Dean's jaw dropped at the high peaked gables and steep roof of - a castle. A 19th century Gothic Revival castle, but there was no other word for it. It was vast and magnificent and holy shit huge, and no way was it anywhere but England.

He stepped off the porch and walked toward it, and only thought to look back when he realized that the picket fence around Rufus' house was gone.

And so was Rufus' house.

There was a swingset there instead, where two little girls sat and toed at the dirt under their feet. One girl leaned on her swing chain and smiled at the other, but it was cruel and speculative.

"I know a way to stop it," she said.

The other girl kept her head down and stayed silent.

"You want it to stop, don't you?"

Mutely, the other girl nodded.

"At sunset, sprinkle this around your bed. Cut your finger and mark the bedposts. And say these words three times--"

Dean covered his mouth, but not before he muttered, "Oh, no."

Both girls looked up. The silent one gasped, and faded from view. The other girl's eyes shuttered black.

He'd recognized the silent girl. Bela. Dreaming a memory of the time she took advice from a demon.

Bela was a witch.

Dean turned back to the castle on the hill, and started the walk toward it.

He decided to walk through the copse of trees, rather than take the long way around it, and nearly stumbled into the clearing where a white-gowned, barefoot Bela stood in a salt circle and cut herbs, chanting. She burned them in a brazier and Dean knew that she was summoning a demon, who stepped out of the trees.

"You're not Azrit," Bela said, though this new demon wore the body of a little girl.

"I'm not Azrit," the demon agreed. "Azrit couldn't come, so she asked me to come instead. Can I help?"

"The spell doesn't work any more," Bela said, and she looked like she was ready to cry.

"The spell works," the demon said. "But it hasn't stopped, has it?"

Bela shook her head. Her hair waved and curled at the very ends, and Dean thought she looked older than she had been on the swings. She'd been a little girl then.

"Please help me," Bela said. She was taller, her hair longer, the leaves on the trees a bright waxy spring green where they'd been gold and orange before. The next spring? Six months later?

"You want it to stop?" The demon asked.

"Yes," Bela said.

"You need hair, nails, blood, sweat, something of the body. An iron nail. Make a doll, put the hair inside it. Give the doll the name, hide it well, and whisper this in the doll's ear."

The demon drew close, and Dean couldn't hear what it said. He tried to move closer, and a stick broke underfoot. Bela whirled around and vanished when she saw him.

The demon turned around and walked two steps before dissolving. The circle and brazier melted away.

Dean moved on through the trees.

The castle probably had a name like Brideshead or bore the surname of a family who'd been noble for generations. Maybe it was even called Talbot Castle. Dean didn't know. The huge banded door swung open at Dean's touch, and Dean walked inside, listening.

The first room he walked through had a cold fireplace and damask curtains and overstuffed chairs. He moved through it, still listening, looking for stairs. He climbed up a flight and watched Bela walk into a room down the hall, and followed.

This was a teenager's room, a teenage girl's room, with NSYNC posters on the papered walls in contrast to the ornately carved bed and the intricate hand knotted carpet. Bela had a fire blazing in the fireplace, even though it was full daylight, and made a sign in the air with a silver dagger. She said the name, "Azrit!" and got down on her knees.

Her hair had been cut and lay straight in a blunt line across her shoulderblades. Again she looked older, though this time Dean thought that maybe more than a few months had passed. She was a teenager now, thirteen or fourteen.

The demon appeared, again a girl, again about the same age as Bela.

"You need my help?"

"The spell doesn't work."

"The spell works," Azrit said. "But you need my help."

"I want it to stop," Bela said.

"I can make it stop," Azrit said. "Remember what I offered the first time you called me?"

"Please, Azrit."

"You didn't want him to die," Azrit said. "You just wanted it to stop. We've tried spells. And they only work for a little while."

"I just want it to stop," Bela said.

"I can stop him," Azrit said. "I can stop him forever. Only tell me to do it, and he'll never do it again."

"Do it," Bela said. She was crying now. "I can't, please Azrit, do it."

"Do what?"

The silence stretched. Dean watched Bela’s shoulders, shivering with sobs. She lifted her head, took a deep breath, and the demon’s eyes shone black.

"Please kill my father," Bela said.

"I will," Azrit promised. "All you ever had to do was ask. I've been waiting for you to ask all this time."

"I just wanted him to stop," Bela wept, and Dean felt sick with understanding.

"Remember what I said," the demon said. "In ten years, I'll have something I'll need you to do."

"I promise I'll do it, I promise," Bela said. "Only please help me."

"All you ever had to do was ask," the demon said, and looked at Dean with black eyes.

Dean ducked out of the room and ran down the corridor. He landed on the stairs and skidded to a halt.

Bela stood in front of the door -- adult, angry, armed Bela, legs apart and arms raised in the isosceles stance.

"Dean," she said, and sighted down the long barrel of the Colt. "How nice of you to come straight to me."

"This is why you stole the Colt?" Dean asked. "This is what the demon wanted you to do?"

"Oh don't flatter yourself, Dean," Bela said. "I stole the Colt to save my skin, and try to repay a debt that came due."

"I saw that," Dean said. "I gotta say, Bela. If I'd been in your shoes--"

"Be careful what you say, Dean."

"I'd have done the same," Dean said.

Bela raised her head and stared at Dean, thunderstruck.

"What the fuck else could you have done, Bela? You tried to tell someone, didn't you, and no one believed you. And you kept trying, until someone did, right? Azrit believed you."

"How do you know this?" She looked shaken. Her face was pale.

"Hello, I was a foster kid," Dean said. "I lived in group homes. Kids talk to each other. It didn't happen to me, and I would have killed anyone who tried to touch Sam."

Bela gave a tight nod.

"But some foster parents - you ran away as soon as you could. We told each other. Nobody else would believe. If it had happened to me? Yeah, Bela. I would have tried anything. I would have tried a spell. And if it worked? I'd come back for more. You did what you had to do."

The Colt wavered.

"You didn't go looking to become a witch, Bela. It was something that happened to you. You were pushed into it. You were pushed," Dean said, and the Colt clattered to the floor. Bela buried her face in her hands and wept.

Dean came closer, but didn't reach out, didn't touch. "And when the bill came due, they wanted something. And you worked hard, you busted your ass, but you got it. And it wasn't enough, was it?"

"They wanted me to steal the Colt."

"And then what?"

"They wanted me to kill you and Sam."

"Is that what you were doing in Rufus' house?"

"No," Bela said. She fumbled around in her pockets and found a packet of tissues. "Rufus owns an amulet that makes you invisible to tracking. Demons can't find you, location spells fizzle, I doubt anyone could even track your mobile phone. I wanted it."

"Because when Azrit killed your father--"

"My parents," Bela corrected. "They died in a car crash. I inherited everything."

"It was a demon deal, wasn't it," Dean said. "For your soul."

"I've been holding them off by being useful to them," Bela said. "But after I brought in the Colt I realized it was never going to stop, there'd always be one more job."

"And so you figured you'd run."

"If I could," Bela said. "But I can't run, can I? I gave them the one thing I could have used to kill them."

Dean nodded. "You fucked up there, a bit."

"A bit," Bela said, bitterly. "Azrit sold my ticket to the Queen of the crossroads. Bloody pyramid scheme. She holds your contract too."

"Bela," Dean said. "Do you know her name?"

"I do," Bela said. "Her name's Lilith."

"Thank you for telling me," Dean said.

"Not a lot of good it will do you," Bela said. "She's got the Colt already. And your date's coming up, isn't it?"

"I've got to try anyway."

"Do it," Bela said. "Only do me one favor, please."

"What's that?"

"Don't bring me back," Bela said. "Don't wake me up. However you were going to escape this world, do it alone."


	17. Farewell, Hello, Farewell, Hello.

The name Lilith figured in conflicting pieces of lore, and they didn't dare let that name slip past their circle while researching. Bobby went into his workshop the moment they got back home. Sam hit the library, speed reading through journals, grimoires, and treatises. Dean stayed on the phones and watched the forums for details on demon activity. He impersonated Unit Chiefs and Justice Department supervisors and spent an entire morning playing phone tag with Garth, who managed to find himself a coven of witches in Tennessee.

The second week after they got back from Vermont, Sam walked into the kitchen while Dean tried to get off the phone with Ken McLeod, who was bored out of his mind on a spirit stakeout. Sam wrote _we're ready_ on a post-it note and Dean finally just interrupted the man to say that he had to hang up.

Dean entered "Lines down three hours" on the innocuously named hunterhotline RSS feed, and walked away even though the FBI Behavioral Science Unit's phone started ringing.

Bobby and Castiel waited in the cellar. The floor space had been cleared to make room for the largest paper map of the country Dean had ever seen, and a flawless crystal pyramid lay perfectly still right on top of Lebanon, Kansas. The almost marijuana smell of burnt sage lingered on top of the earthy, damp smell of the cellar - the space had been ritually cleansed.

"This is it?" Dean asked, and Bobby nodded.

"This ought to do it," Bobby said, and nodded at the crystal pyramid. "It's cleansed, primed, and ready to go. Sam, you ready for your close-up?"

Sam held his journal in the spread of one hand. "Ready."

"So what do I do?" Dean asked.

Bobby pointed to a two-foot wide circle painted in sand, finely drawn glyphs inscribed around its perimeter. "Stand there and look pretty, boy. You're the link."

Dean stood in the center of the circle and waited. Castiel tucked himself behind a thin line of salt separating the cellar's workroom from a half-dug hallway - one of Bobby's renovation ideas that got left undone.

Sam picked up Castiel's angel blade and pointed it at the pyramid, chanting Latin from his notebook.

The spell wasn't long, but the pyramid quivered from the first syllable, raised itself in the air, and whirled about the map at the speed of Dean's best fastball. He fought the urge to step back. If the heavy pointer flew off course, it could crack bone.

The pyramid slammed to a halt as Sam uttered the last words. It quivered, and floated over to rest, point downward.

It balanced perfectly on New Harmony, Indiana.

"Well, there you go," Bobby said. "That familiar to anyone?"

"New Harmony, Indiana is a town of about eight hundred," Castiel said. "The population is aging. It was an early American experiment in socialism in the 19th century."

Dean bent over to read the roads. It was twelve hours, if they behaved themselves on the road. "Any ideas on how we're supposed to find a demon in a little town full of Golden Agers?"

"Duplicate the same spell on a street map of the town," Castiel said. "One moment."

He vanished.

"Fuck," Sam said.

"What?" Dean stood still in the little circle.

"I hope he doesn't actually go to New Harmony," Sam said. "What if they can sense him?"

"Balls," Bobby swore.

"And how," Dean agreed.

Castiel returned with a map book. "Here," he said. "This should have the relevant area."

"Cas, where did you get that?"

"From a warehouse in Skokie, Illinois," Castiel said. "Why?"

"Nothing," Sam said.

Castiel opened the map. "Do the spell again."

*

They had her down to the address. The problem was she was at the tip of a dead-end street, with only one road as access.

"We go in quiet," Sam said.

"We walk right into a trap that springs shut behind us," Dean countered. "Maybe we have to draw her out."

"How do we do that?" Sam asked. "We don't even know what she's doing there. We need more information."

"Sam," Dean rubbed his face. "No."

"Look," Sam said. "As it is right now, we've got the amulet Bela wanted. Cas wears it, no one can see him coming. You make us some extra strong charm bags, they can't see us either."

"And you want Ruby's knife. What makes you think she'll give it to us?"

"She wants Lilith knocked off the board too," Sam said. "I say we summon her."

"No, Sam. We can't trust her."

"Cas?" Sam asked.

Castiel stirred, uncomfortably.

"You think we should summon her," Dean accused.

"I shouldn't say."

"I thought you wanted to take down Lilith."

"My preferences don't signify," Castiel said. "I couldn't tell you Lilith's name, and I can't tell you what happens next."

"Because you don't know?" Dean asked.

"Because I can't tell you," Castiel said.

"This is the moment of truth, isn't it? This is what decides if we go back to the future or not. Jesus, Cas. How are we supposed to decide?"

"I'm deciding," Sam said. "Right now. We summon Ruby."

"Sam-"

"No." Sam swept the sand into a blur. "You going to stand there, or are you going to help?"

*

Sam lit the brazier full of the correct herbs and bled into the flame. Dean counted to three and looked behind him. Ruby leaned against the shelf that held dark jars of fruit preserves and empty shotgun shells dressed in her black leather jacket, jeans, and boots.

"Coming up on zero hour, boys. I expected you to call sooner."

She walked nonchalantly over to the devil's trap and stepped in it. "All right, kittens. Tell Ruby everything."

"You could just refuse to get in that devil's trap," Dean said. "But you always do."

"I trust you two to let me out." Ruby hooked her heels in the footrail of the tall stool Sam had placed in the trap and rested her hands on her knees.

"But what if we didn't?"

"Then shame on me," Ruby said. "Now what are you two after? You never call on me unless you want something."

"We know Lilith holds my contract," Dean said. "No help from you."

"You weren't ready," Ruby said. "If I'd told you, you would have run off like it was a game of cops and robbers."

"We're ready now," Dean said. "We know where she is."

"Now what, action heroes?"

"You give us your knife," Dean said.

Ruby laughed aloud. "Oh, no. No way. Besides, why would I give you a weapon when you already have one?"

"Castiel will burn himself out if he smites Lilith."

"I didn't mean feathers." Ruby looked at Sam.

"Me?" Sam asked. "I'm not a weapon."

"Oh yes you are," Ruby said.

"You're talking about Sam's psychic stuff?" Dean asked. "That's all gone."

"Ever since Dean brought me back," Sam said. "It's gone."

"It's not gone, Sam. It's in you. You just need to bring it out. Then you'll be ready. But don't bring the angel."

"No."

"Look, you idiots. They'll sense him. You'll walk into a slaughter."

"Hello, Ruby," Castiel said.

Ruby twisted in her seat, wide eyed. "How are you - you're not there. I can't feel you."

"There's a bright side. We know the amulet works," Dean said.

Ruby pursed her lips and thought about it. "Between that and Sam, you could make it. Even less risky if you use Sam's talent."

Dean swept his hand out, pushing the idea away. "Forget it. Even if you're telling the truth, that power is pure dark side. He's not doing it."

"Fine," Ruby sighed. "It's your deathday party, run it how you want."

She reached into her jacket and her blade sat balanced on her palm.

"Don't lose it," she said. "I'll want it back. Now let me out."

*

Dean's music played in the Impala even when he wasn't driving. Dean wished that Sam would have yanked out his device to play more of his Wumpscut or whatever, but when Castiel took his turn from Omaha to Kansas City, he'd left Dean's music playing, and Sam had followed suit. It made Dean feel like he'd been granted a last request.

He didn't like it.

The music shuffled to Alice in Chains when they crossed the state line into Indiana, and Dean turned the music up with a bitter little laugh.

"Aw, not this song," Sam said.

"It's perfect."

"It's morbid."

"Yeah, they come to snuff the Rooster!" Dean belted out. "You know he ain't gonna die..."

"You can't sing," Castiel said.

"Neither can you, frog-throat."

"My vessel can't sing," he corrected. "In my true form, there's a reason why we're known as a chorus of Seraphim. We are renowned for singing."

Red and blue lights flashed behind them, and Dean swore.

Sam twisted around to look through the rear view window. "Were you speeding?"

"I've got a broken tail-light," Dean said.

"Dean," Castiel said.

"It's all right," Dean said, and rolled his window down. He handed over his Kansas drivers license and registration, and his smile barely faltered when he looked up and said, "Evening, officer."

"You know you have a broken taillight, Mr. Connolly?"

"Yeah, I noticed it when we stopped at a Gas-n-Sip a few miles back. In fact--"

Dean slammed the heavy driver's side door into the demon's pelvis, staggering him long enough to step out and plunge Ruby's knife into his body. Sam's shocked outcry stilled when the orange flickering light flashed just under the demon's skin.

Dean bent over and cleaned the blade on the body's uniform tie.

"How did you--"

"I saw it, Sam," Dean said. "I saw his face, writhing under the skin."

"We have to get to New Harmony," Castiel said. "We haven't got much time."

"What do you mean?" Sam uncurled his fists and rubbed his hands on his thighs, as if wiping away sweat.

"I could tell what that creature was, though it obviously couldn't sense me," Castiel explained as Dean pulled back onto the highway. "That Dean can see it tells me that he's getting close to the veil."

"Cas," Sam said. "Is there anything you can do?"

"We do our best to destroy Lilith," Castiel said. "It's all we have left."

Sam swore under his breath. "What do you want to bet Lilith's got half the town possessed?"

"I don't want to bet," Dean said. "Maybe we better start sneaking in now."

*

New Harmony looked like a pretty place to live, if one ignored the present circumstances. The big suburban houses would attract a buyer looking for a nice place to raise their kids.

"Demons," Castiel said, and they all ducked into shadows.

"How many?" Sam whispered.

"Everybody you see."

"Shit."

There was a mailman, sorting envelopes. A middle aged couple sat in full view of their house's big picture window. A kid who did BMX tricks on a wooden ramp dragged out in the middle of the street.

"I've got an idea," Castiel said. "From here out you need to make it four houses up on your own. To that lane."

"Got it," Sam said.

Castiel melted into the shadows. Dean watched the kid sail through the air and practice his bar spin. He had the trick down, and after three repetitions, he ditched the bike to pick the ramp up and carry it up to an open garage.

Dean closed his eyes. The demon was going inside. He wouldn't have to knife a kid.

They made their way across landscaped lawns to the lane Castiel had indicated. Castiel wasn't hiding there, but Sam touched Dean's shoulder, and then stepped back.

Dean moved into the space between shrubs and looked through the front window of 6330 Harmony Circle.

A big plate glass window framed a family dining room. A woman had set the table, and was walking into the room with a candle decorated cake. She was smiling, but hher stiff movements and frightened eyes sank an icicle into Dean’s heart.

"Shit," Dean said.

"Are they demons?"

"No," Dean said. "Only the little girl. That's her. That's Lilith."

"The rest of them are--"

"People," Dean said. "This is what Lilith does for fun."

"You gonna stand out here all night?"

Dean had his watergun out before he'd turned all the way around. "Ruby."

"Nice place to raise a family, huh?" Ruby asked.

"Oh sure. Great neighborhood. Very _Stepford Wives_ meets _Rosemary's Baby_ ," Dean said.

"Come on, kittens," Ruby said. "Princess Lilith has announced bedtime. There's a hundred demons in New Harmony right now, and you walked right into the middle of a trap."

"And you came anyway," Sam said.

"Told you I'd be there for the final tango," Ruby said. "Now are you boys ready to storm the castle, or what?"

*

They tried to sneak across, but they tripped a motion detector and yard lights blazed, exposing them. There wasn't anything left to do but run for it.

Sam tried to pick the locked front door and Dean held Castiel’s blade on the advancing demons, but the sprinklers came on. The crowd of demons flinched from the sudden spray of water. A housewife hissed and covered her smoking face with long-nailed hands.

“Remind me I can’t have the water,” Ruby said. 

Castiel rounded the corner, his trenchcoat and shirt wet. "About time you decided to come by."

"Sorry we're late," Dean said, and backed up as Sam finally picked the front door lock.

"Body," Castiel said, and Dean swiped at flies buzzing up from the body of an old woman.

"Spread out, stay quiet," Dean said. "That water will only hold them so long."

"I can hold the door," Castiel said. "Find Lilith."

Ruby stared up the stairs to the second floor. "She's up there."

*

The bedroom was a little girl's dream. Dean had heard it from clients with little girls often enough. Soft colours on the walls, shelves of dolls and toys, and in the center, a canopy bed with sheer curtains drawn all around. The woman who served the cake lay on that bed, while Lilith slept curled up against her. Dean could only make out their shapes as sam crept up to draw back the bed curtains, Ruby's knife raised.

The woman was awake, Dean saw. And Lilith was monstrous, even in sleep. Her grotesque face made Dean's throat spasm as he gagged.

Sam hesitated, eyes wide, and the woman whispered, "Do it. Please."

Stab her daughter, she meant. But she'd been terrorized long enough to know that it wasn't.

Sam raised the knife, and Dean leapt forward to stop him as Lilith's face smoothed out into a child's wide eyed scream.

"Sam stop!" Dean said, and didn't let go of his arm. "It's not in her anymore. She's free."

"Where the hell did she go?"

"I don't know. Let's get these two into the basement."

*

Castiel came up the stairs from the basement, and sealed the door with a sigil drawn in felt pen. “What are the demons outside doing?”

Ruby looked up from her station at the door. "They're waiting. What happened to Lilith?"

"She hopped out of the kid," Dean said, averting his eyes.

"She didn't need to stay," Ruby said, and moved out of his direct line of sight. "Dean. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I'm sorry."

The clock chimed. Sam and Castiel stared at each other. 

"We never had a chance," Sam said.

Dean didn't answer either of them. He stared at the front foyer.

"Hellhound."

"Where?" Sam asked, but Dean and Ruby were already making a run for the den. They slammed the door shut, and Dean laid down a line of goofer dust in front of it before backing away.

"That won't hold them forever," Ruby said. "I'll buy you time, just give me the knife."

Sam said, "What?"

"Come on," Ruby said. "It's your last chance."

"Sam don't," Dean said.

Sam took the knife out of its sheath. 

"Sam it's not Ruby!"

Ruby swept through the air with one hand, knocking Sam off his feet and into the wall. Castiel glowed and raised his hand but halted, staring down the long barrel of the Colt.

"Surprise," Lilith said.

Castiel put his hands up.

The last bell of midnight tolled.

*

"What did you do with Ruby?" Dean asked.

"I sent her far far away," Lilith said. Even her voice was different. Ruby knew human manners, speech, gesture. Lilith was...like a child. “She tried to use you to kill me.”

"It's me you want," Sam said. "Let him go."

"Why? I have all of you," Lilith said. "I can kill _you_ and this gun will kill the angel and Dean's going right to hell."

She leveled the revolver and smiled wide. "Bang."

She pulled the trigger.

"No!"

Dean shoved Castiel out of the way, putting himself in the path of of the bullet meant for Castiel. Sam flung his hand out, palm forward, and shouted.

Dean stared at a hand-engraved bullet suspended in midair an inch away from his face.

Lilith lowered the gun, her white-out eyes wide. Sam took a step toward her and made a grasping gesture with his hand.

The Colt flew from her fingers. Sam took another step forward.

"Get back!" she cried.

Castiel drew his blade and raised it, stepping in.

Lilith smoked out with a scream, leaving Ruby's body crumpled on the floor.

Sam reached again, making a fist, and the cloud of smoke pulled towards him for an instant before it scattered, escaped.

The den doors shook. A Hellhound howled.

What had Sam done?

“I didn’t--Dean, I never--”

Sam swayed on his feet, nose bleeding, and Castiel barely caught him before he toppled to the ground.

Dean stumbled forward to help him hold Sam. "Can you zap us out of here?" he asked.

"I can't," Castiel said. 

"Just Sam," Dean said. "Take Sam. Leave me."

"Dean, I can't," Castiel said. "I tried already. The building is glyph-bound."

"What do the glyphs look like? We'll find them, break them." Dean dove for the Colt, for Ruby's knife. "We'll fight."

The doors creaked and shivered. They were going to break open.

He dropped the last of the goofer dust in a circle around them. "Can you heal Sam?"

"Dean," Castiel said. "Lilith got away. Your contract still holds."

Dean swiped at Sam's face, slapped his cheeks gently. "Come on Sam, wake up."

"Dean," Castiel said. "We tried."

Dean looked at Castiel, grabbed at his shoulder. "We lost?"

"We lost," Castiel said. "Dean."

"Cas," Dean took aim at the hole in the den door and shot. The snarling became a sharp yelp, and then silence. Dean sighed in relief.

"There's more hounds than bullets," Dean said.

"Yes."

"Once they get what they want, Hellhounds leave everyone else alone," Dean said.

"Yes," Castiel said.

“You and Sam can get away,” Dean said, “But I have to--”

“Dean. I won’t let the hellhounds take you,” Castiel said. “I can do that much.”

"Cas," Dean reached up, fighting the hot burn in his throat. "Cas. Don't cry." He brushed tears from Castiel's face. 

"Listen to me," Dean said. "No matter who I am, Cas. Hunter all my life, carpenter, kindergarten teacher, it doesn't matter. I love you."

The snarling returned.

Castiel stood in the circle with him, amidst the fetid stink of filthy dog and brimstone. Dean had to pitch his voice to be heard above the Hellhounds.

“You said I save the world,” Dean said.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t done that yet,” Dean said. “I’ll see you again. Cas. I’ll make it out of Hell, and I’ll see you again.”

Castiel grabbed Dean tight, one arm around his waist and the other at the back of Dean’s neck. He didn’t let go, even when his pant legs fluttered with the closeness of the hellhound’s breath.

“Take care of Sammy, Cas,” Dean said. “Take care of him.”

He stepped over the line, and didn't make three steps before the hounds pulled him down.

It is a very mixed blessing to be brought back from the dead.

The first thing that was wrong was the silence. All he could hear was his breathing. The second thing that was wrong was that he didn't hurt.

Anywhere.

He lay on his back, and breathed. Stale air, pine wood, earth. Nothing in front of his eyes but blackness. he turned his palms to touch the material he lay on, and tried to raise them.

Wood. Surrounded by wood.

"Son of a bitch," he croaked. "It's Kill Bill Part 2."

He could just lie here. The terror would take him as the air ran out and the pressure of being enclosed on all sides by pine and earth tore at his mind until he "died." Not fighting might even spoil Alistair's plans for him.

Or Alistair could just put him back in that box until he'd done it right.

Dean reached into his jeans pocket and found his engraved Zippo. He flicked the lid back and thumbed the striker wheel. He wanted to watch the flame come to life even if it dazzled his eyes.

It _was_ a coffin. Dean stuffed panic down and found what he'd been looking for - where to aim.

He let the lighter flame die and hoped he had enough air to make it a good show before he punched the lid. He'd scratch at it, if it didn't give. Kick it with his heavy-soled, steel toed boots. Scream, and one of the last things he'd smell while he died was his own terror-soaked body.

"That get you off, you son of a bitch?" he muttered, and hit the lid again. Again. Wood cracked, and he smothered the leap of hope in his heart.

There was putting on a good show, and then there was getting caught up in it.

Dean kept fighting past pine and soil and into the sunlight, into sweet fresh air and late summer heat. He lay on the ground and rested until he licked dry, filthy lips and thought of water.

Whatever Alistair wanted from this little scenario, he hadn't gotten it yet.

Dean got to his feet and picked his way past the blasted ring of trees that had once circled his grave.

The first building he found was a gas station, and it was closed. Not abandoned, Dean saw through the windows. He broke a window and went in.

This was easier than having to shine a clerk while covered in graveyard dirt. No doubt he could have done it, but he just wanted a drink. Maybe Alistair would steal a line from the Greeks and snatch him before it touched his lips.

The water from the bottle was clean and cold. Dean swallowed until the bottle was empty. He wanted another. The clock showed the noon hour. hoever attended the gas station might have left for lunch. He'd have to move a little quicker.

He turned and saw the newspaper stand and went over to look at the date: September 18, 2008.

And he was in (or near) Pontiac, Illinois.

"Illinois," Dean mused. What could it mean for Alistair to put him here?

Dean looked out the dingy windows of the gas station. If he was right about the reason why the gas station was closed, he didn't have much time.

The washroom was grimy in the corners, but Dean leaned over the sink and scrubbed his face. He patted his face dry with a paper towel and checked in the mirror for dirt.

he frowned, and stood up straight, lifting the front of his t-shirt.

There were no scars on his chest. That wasn't right. The Hellhounds and Alistair had torn him to ribbons.

but there was something. He turned his left shoulder toward the mirror and lifted his shirt sleeve. He stared at the red impression of a handprint spread over his deltoid, and swallowed bile.

What was going to happen before Alastair pulled the plug?

And what would he do, if he'd fallen for this little holodeck scenario?

The cash register held about a hundred dollars in bills, some change, and a pile of credit card slips. he left those. The cash went into his wallet, the change ballasted his pockets. He was just checking under the currency tray when the station's television snapped on, tuned to a dead channel.

He eyed it for a moment before he turned it off.

The radio blared to life, squealing and hissing. Dean broke for the limited grocery aisle. He dropped salt on the windowsill and wondered if the gas station had a shotgun or rifle under the counter.

Then the noise sounded, like the worst feedback from a wall of amplifiers, high-pitched and skull-drilling. Dean kept laying out salt, but the noise had him on the floor before the windows shattered and the sound stopped.

_What the fuck was that?_

Dean didn't know, but he had to get out of there, find Sam. Tell him--

No. Remember. just put on a good show.

Remembering this wasn't real hurt.

Dean trotted out the door to try the pay phone.

Sam's number wasn't in service, but Bobby had answered on the first ring, and hung up just as quickly after Dean told Bobby who he was. The second call, Bobby threatened to kill him.

 _He's got Bobby in character,_ Dean thought, and he saw the old white Cadillac parked outside the station. _Well, there's the next step to this game._

He had the engine running with the touch of two wires, and he drove off toward Sioux Falls. He'd play it through and never forget that it wasn't real.

Bobby wasn't too hard to convince in the end, but they had to turn around and go right back to Pontiac because that's where Sam was.

Had he done a deal to trade himself in for Dean? It was a slick story, but he didn't know what Alistair would get out of Dean sacrificing himself to save Sam again. Of course he would do it. How could that be a torment? What did Alistair have up his sleeve? It had to be more twisted than this.

When Sam said that he hadn't dealt for him, Dean waited for the other shoe to drop. He thought it dropped when the whole cafe rose up with black eyed bastards, but then they just let him walk out after a few good lines and a satisfying slap to the face of that waitress.

He was back in the Impala with his brother riding shotgun and he started to wonder. What could Sam be, if he could make a demon like Lilith run screaming back to hell?

The answer hit him with a thud. Alistair'd remade the goofy giant sitting beside him with a monster just under the skin. Dean wondered if Alistair liked it when Dean figured it out, smiled when Dean tried to swallow it down and act normal.

And then the story switched again, and that's when Dean let himself think, for an instant: _What if it's all real?_

After the first day of everything looking right but feeling wrong, he understood what had happened, what had to have happened.

It was real. It was _real._ He was the other Dean, on the true path of time.

Everyone was different. Bobby was still gruff and sarcastic, but he didn't feel like he cared enough. Sam was his brother, but his music was wrong. All wrong.

He tried a couple things. If he let the body do what it knew how to do, he was a different kind of shot. Faster, instinctive. His battle with Bobby when he first got to Sioux Falls - he'd been so practiced at hand to hand that he thought he could go twelve rounds with his brother.

He remembered hunts when he was young, he remembered school after school and not giving a fuck on top of building gardening sheds and multi-level backyard decks with Uncle Jim, who layered overtop of a pastor that blond demon Meg had killed.

He remembered how he always called John "Sir."

He noticed how Sam always went to the passenger seat, even though he'd been driving Baby--baby? For months. Dean was in a world that he didn't quite fit.

And there was nothing in the goddamned car but classic rock tapes.

Maybe it was Alistair, after all.

It was easier to just let Sam and Bobby show him what he was supposed to be. It was easier to relax and let the other Dean react to a woman who let him know exactly where he'd be welcome. The other Dean had a cocky grin but even he wondered if he could handle a hurricane in low rise jeans like Pamela Barnes.

Hopefully, Sam brought a book.

Pamela put her hand on his shoulder to conjure and command whoever had hauled him out of the pit.

"Castiel?"

His heart leapt. He knew whose handmark was on his shoulder.

_Castiel._

He barely remembered what Cas had told him about psychics and his true form when the candles flared up and Pamela started to scream.

Bobby had warded the barn with every protective symbol that he knew, and Dean let him do it. It's what he--the other Dean would have done. But he knew what was coming, and his heart beat fast. He knew that it had been Castiel out at the fill-up station, just as it had been Castiel outside the Astoria. 

Knowing didn't stop the impulse to fire, again and again, into a body that just kept walking. Castiel walked right up to him and the first thing Dean thought was that he looked so _young_.

The other was that Castiel didn't look at him right. This Castiel looked at a stranger. This Castiel didn't have laughter in his eyes when he told Dean that he had no faith.

This Castiel didn't know him.

But he would, and then Dean would be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I'm ceeainthereforthat on tumblr, too.


End file.
